


Slings and Arrows

by NatatBlue



Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:31:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2460041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatatBlue/pseuds/NatatBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ordinary man harbors a dark secret. His life forever changes when he comes of age, and he can no longer hide from himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a couple of years ago, but never shown to people outside of the Yahoo group I was hosting at the time. With the Unbreakables off exhibit as we revise it for publication, I hope readers will find this entertaining. The novel is complete, and perhaps someday I will write a sequel.
> 
> I've been having some trouble with AO3, but hopefully the chapters are in the right order and all here.

**Slings and Arrows**

**Chapter 1**

He paced the kitchen, his dress shoes clattering across the original linoleum of his midcentury home. Scott was usually ridiculously pleased with his black and white floor and shiny red counter tops, but tonight he couldn’t stop circling. His Japanese Chin stared at Scott with bugged out eyes and fled from the kitchen. He dashed around the corner, his nails skidding across the smooth hardwood floors of the hallway. Oreo was a social creature, flying for the safety of the bed was unusual unless a thunderstorm was brewing.

Scott had heard of thunder snow, but he’d never seen it. He sniffed the air; no it was going to be clear. What?! Sniffing the air to detect the weather. It had been a bad day at work, but he wasn’t crazy; he didn’t sniff the air or hold his finger to the wind or consult oracles with magic rocks to determine future weather; he turned on the Weather Channel like all other sensible people.

He circled the kitchen again. He caught the metal edge of the counter with his hand, trying to stop his frantic pacing. This wasn’t him; he didn’t pace. He cocked his head and looked out the kitchen window. It was already dark, not black like in the wilderness but dark for his neighborhood. His neighbor’s security light washed into his yard and through the dining room windows. Farther away he could see the streetlights and the glow of the lamps in the house behind him. Scott flicked his eyes to this own ceiling; he hadn’t turned on the lights. Why hadn’t he noticed his own kitchen seemed dark and murky? But it wasn’t; Scott could clearly see the keypad on the microwave and the insignia on the refrigerator.

Scott opened his kitchen door and stepped out onto the back porch. The sky was dark. He never could see many stars here, too much light pollution, and the moon was covered by thick clouds. The wind blew, shaking the branches on the fragile pear tree that the last owner had thought was a good idea. Just the edge of the moon peaked out from a cloud. It was either full or almost full from the shape of it. Violet, that insane woman from the office, would probably insist there was some special meaning associated with a full moon on Valentine’s Day. She actually managed stock portfolios depending on the owner’s astrologic sign. She was bat shit crazy, but she did have a following. There were more crazy people out there than Scott wanted to contemplate.

And he was entering those crazy ranks. He was standing on his back porch in the middle of February without a jacket, staring at a half hidden moon. Definitely crazy. He stomped back into the house, rubbing his arms briskly against the cold. He was crazy all right, standing out in the freezing cold and looking at the moon. Scott yanked his attention back to his dinner. Chopped carrots and a handful of peas were waiting for him on the cutting board. Peas he snorted; green food was for prey.

Scott jerked open the refrigerator and ransacked its contents: salad dressing, milk out of date, lettuce, half used can of tomatoes. He wanted steak or hamburger or chicken breasts. Nothing! Nothing! He slammed the refrigerator shut, shaking the drawers and bins. Grabbing his keys, he plunged out the door still without a jacket or a hat.

His car roared to life. He’d always driven a used economy box, but this year for his twenty-fifth birthday he’d splurged. He’d bought a new car, a German import with far more horsepower than he truly needed and a decadent taste for premium gasoline. It was beautiful in its midnight blue, and it was truly a delight to smell the rich leather of the seats and feel the solidness of the steel around him. No more plastic boxes where the knobs fell off the radio every hundred miles.

Scott blinked and reflexively shielded his eyes from the oncoming headlights. The lights flickered off and then back on again. Damn! He was driving without his lights on. He could see the bushes on the side of the road hiding the electrical boxes and the lone dog walker bundled against the cold, an equally bundled beagle in a pink coat forged ahead and looked mortified at his jacket. He flicked on his lights; he always drove with his lights on at night.

His eyes spotted the golden arches ahead. He zoomed into the deserted drive-thru and ordered a double quarter pounder no cheese, no ketchup, plain as they could make it. Scott handed his crumpled bills to the exhausted teenager behind the window and snatched the bag. He tore open the box and discarded the bun. He’d swallowed half of one burger before the teen managed to hand the change back. Scott wiped the grease from his hands and took the change, surprised at the teenager’s shocked expression. Scott stared down into the burger box in front of him. The lid was torn off and crushed. Half of one burger had been devoured, and Scott could barely restrain himself from grabbing the second part.

“Thanks,” Scott managed to mutter, pulling the car forward into a vacant space. Where was the bun? He liked bun with his burgers. Scott ripped a piece of meat off and swallowed it. He didn’t eat hamburger often; he never ate hamburger from fast food joints, the scourge of the American diet. He worked where the canteen served bean sprouts and tofu.

The rest of the burger was gone. Scott didn’t remember eating the remaining patty, but he must have. It wasn’t in the car, even though the odor of meat still permeated the vehicle. Scott crumpled the trash and ran to the nearest bin. His breath was coming fast as he secured his seatbelt. He’d been tempted to go inside and order another burger, but he’d spotted the teen from the drive-thru looking and pointing.

The road was mostly deserted. Scott had driven away from the McDonald’s in aimless panic. He’d turned away from his home and toward the country with fields full of broken and harvested cornstalks and deer lurking around every corner. Venison--Scott’s mouth watered. He’d never liked venison. Some distant relative, second cousin twice removed or something, had given him venison sausage. Scott had left them in the freezer until mercifully a power failure had allowed him to dispose of all the detritus tucked behind the ice maker.

Where in the hell was he going? The road was narrow with no edge lines and only a halfhearted attempt at a center line. He rumbled over a covered bridge and turned onto a road that was more gravel than pavement. He’d been here once, last summer. It was an old army base, abandoned long ago and donated to the state’s Department of Natural Resources. In the summer in the bright sun, it had been pretty. He’d pedaled around the deserted and potholed roads, watching butterflies flit across the knee high grass of once strictly mown fields.

He pulled his car into the lot that had once been reserved for business with the base commander. An empty flag pole stood out front, ringed by a circle of white rocks. The building was still in good shape; part of it had been restored and was used as a ranger’s station and learning center if Scott remembered right. They had brochures with overly simplified maps that were useless on the trails and a diorama depicting the base in its glory days of World War II when it teamed with soldiers heading to Europe.

Scott sat in his car, frozen. Why had he driven out here? He didn’t have sudden hankerings for a nighttime, freezing jog around deserted army camps. He should do the sensible thing and turn the car around and head back home, but he couldn’t seem to do the sensible thing. His body was thrumming, his heart hammering in his chest, his ears straining for distant noises.

He heard it, the music of a howl in a distant valley. He heard it again, this time louder, rising to a fullness of several voices. He reached for his keys; it was only a few coyotes. They were becoming far more prevalent now, having adapted to suburban living. They were only coyotes, no need to be trembling. The howl reverberated again, louder and nearer. Scott stiffened, almost leaping from his seat. He pushed the door open and scrambled out; lifting his head to the sky, he answered in a deep bay.

The clouds had scattered; the moon was full. He was standing under a full moon, and he’d just howled. He wasn’t drunk; he knew he’d had nothing but bottled water. He was sure the water hadn’t been contaminated. Scott howled again his voice rising in a rich baritone.

No! He gripped the top of his car. No! He wasn’t crazy. He didn’t believe the magazines at the checkout stand of the grocery, woman gives birth to alien, man with three heads, vampire found in closet. No! He must have food poisoning, or he must have taken some medication. He hadn’t been sick; he wasn’t taking pills. His body jerked as an answering howl crossed the valley. He couldn’t stop himself. His feet pushed ahead, down the broken road. He jogged by the old barracks building and only a roof and two walls of what was labeled a gymnasium. He crossed a field, patches of snow, mud, and half frozen water soaking his lower legs and shoes. Good shoes, size seven and one half, impossible to find, he thought stupidly as he plunged ahead. Another howl ripped the night sky. His legs moved faster, scrambling over a fallen log and down a muddy embankment.

He struggled up the far side, his breath ripping through his chest. He didn’t do adventure running or whatever they called that insane sport that involved racing up and down mountains on rocky, poorly cut trails where the participants encountered poisonous plants and dangerous wildlife. He scraped his hand on something. He could see the black points sharply outlined in the silver of the moon as he jerked his hand back with a sharp yip.

He’d yip. He spewed every curse he knew or ever heard as he drew the injured flesh to his mouth. Scott whimpered as his tongue and lips probed the pierced flesh. 

A fresh howl spread across the valley. With one last lick, Scott pushed his legs forward. He brushed through the trees until he came to a large open field. Scott followed the trampled path. Maybe it was a deer trail; maybe it was trampled by the group of people he could see at the far end. Excited yips rose in his throat; he couldn’t stop them. He bounded across the grass oblivious to the mud and splatter. He plunged into the center of the group and froze as all eyes turned on him.

There were a dozen perhaps, all men, and all more sensibly dressed, the rational side of Scott’s brain told him, with boots and proper coats. Scott shivered in the cold breeze and under the eyes of all those strangers. A tall man, broad shouldered with a dark mane of hair framing his face and dropping over his collar stepped out of the group. Silently he approached, stopping inches from Scott’s soaked shoes. He growled.

Was that supposed to mean something? This man, standing in a sodden field under a full moon had growled. Scott was sensible. He didn’t believe in urban legends and ridiculous fairy tales.

“May I help you?” Scott croaked. It wouldn’t have been a normal or sensible response if he’d met this guy on the street. The man was too close; he was staring too hard. On the street Scott would have crossed over or fled into the nearest store. Under the bright lights of an all night pharmacy, he would have been safe.

The growl was deeper this time, rumbling from the depth of the man’s chest. The man gripped Scott’s shoulder, pinning him in place, not that Scott could make his legs move. They had become disconnected from the circuits of his brain. All he could do was stand frozen under the glare of this man’s inspection. Scott tried to hold the man’s eye, but they were as dark as the hair: intense, predatory, and feral. Scott’s eyes dropped to the trampled grass.

A large hand with calloused fingers stroked the side of Scott’s face. The hand played through Scott’s short brown hair. Scott should tell him to stop. He was a stranger. He shouldn’t be touching him like this. A finger traced around Scott’s lip and with a push dove inside, scraping Scott’s teeth and touching the roof of his mouth. Scott tried to move away, but the grip on his shoulder tightened to a painful vice. He thought of biting, but that meant real blood and probably pain.. Scott was small; he’d never been a fighter, His only fight in school had ended with a bloody nose and a call to his parents. He couldn’t fight all these people. There was no safe haven of bright lights, financial reports, and the beauty of the computer screen.

As a boy, it hadn’t been the tick of the stocks across the screen, but the wonderful world of monsters and fabulous heroes who could wield a half dozen weapons at once and gain lives by finding hidden potions. Here he had no escape. He’d come up here on his own. He stood trapped and frozen with fear, but also with something else. The man, much too close, his touch much too intimate, smelled of wood and outdoors and something Scott couldn’t describe. He wanted to bury himself against him, submit to whatever this stranger wanted.

The man’s finger left his mouth and traced down his neck. Scott tipped his head back, exposing his throat. He whimpered as the finger rested on his hammering pulse.

“Good.”

The single word contained more warmth and pleasure than Scott had ever imagined. Scott smiled. He knew his eyes were desperate and pleading, and he didn’t know why. He didn’t go in for being manhandled by strangers in some crazy ritual in a freezing field. Scott shivered, his teeth chattering.

“You’re like ice. Idiot pup.”

The man’s hands disappeared only to appear again with a thick sweater he’d shed from under his coat. He pulled Scott’s limp arms overhead and dropped the sweater down over Scott’s head and shoulders. It was big, hanging to his knees with his hands lost somewhere in the folds of the sleeves, but it was warm and smelled of the man. Scott drew the scent into his lungs, not understanding the need.

“Pup, you have to dress until you shift. The human form doesn’t handle the outdoors in winter.”

“Shift?” Scott’s tongue felt thick over the word. He couldn’t think; he could barely speak. Weren’t these people some strange nature lovers on a full moon hike or at worse people who got their jollies pretending to practice harmless forms of witchcraft? Violet claimed to be a pagan and had inadvertently sent Scott an email about a Winter Solstice celebration. He’d trashed it without reading it, too weird for him. He fell in the celestial teapot circles anyway. All god things were impossible to disprove but this wasn’t the same as proof. It was just as logical to believe a celestial teapot revolved around Mars and demanded the lowly humans’ adoration as to believe in one or many gods.

“You have shifted?” The man’s voice broke through the fog of Scott’s brain.

Shifted? He could drive a stick shift. “I don’t understand.” It was a whine. Scott longed to rub against the man; he wanted the reassurance of the stranger’s touch.

“You don’t know.” The man threw his head back, and a howl rose from his throat, eerie and beautiful all at once. A chorus of short yips and half howls broke around them, and the people dispersed, underbrush cracking as they scrambled away.

“What’s happening?” Scott managed to ask, forcing his tongue to form words that suddenly felt unfamiliar.

“How old are you? You’ve never shifted? You were never told?”

“Twenty-five.” He could answer that question. It had been his birthday last week, and he felt old and alone. Being able to rent a car without a huge hassle didn’t seem like a worthwhile milestone; it only seemed that he was getting older. The other he didn’t understand. The variable didn’t compute; he didn’t have enough information.

“When?”

When what? When was his birthday? “Last week.”

“You’re twenty-five. You must shift on the first full moon after maturity. You cannot wait any longer.”

“Shift?” Nothing made sense. Full moon. What was this man babbling about? Where had everyone else gone?

“You’re a shifter.”

“A what?”

“A werewolf to be exact and by midnight you will have shifted.”

“You’re kidding me?” This had to be an elaborate joke. Why were they picking on him? He’d heard of crazy things for bachelor parties, but they usually involved strippers, not compelling strangers insisting he was a mythical beast.

“I am not.”

“Where are the others?” Scott’s brain couldn’t entertain this hocus-pocus. It was impossible to physically change forms; he’d taken enough biology to know that muscles and bones couldn’t remodel from form to form. He’d keep the questions simple. Find out information and escape.

“They’ve gone to secure the perimeter. The first shift will be difficult and dangerous.”

Scott nodded his head. What else could he do? How could he discuss irrational myths and legends as facts?

“Come. It will start soon. We need somewhere more protected.”

The man--Scott still didn’t know his name-- grabbed his wrist. They moved fast across trails that the man obviously knew. Scott struggled to catch his breath and keep his footing. There wasn’t extra oxygen to process any other thoughts.

Scott smelled the water before he saw or heard it. A small stream trickled over rocks and splashed into thinly frozen pools. He stumbled along the edges until the man pulled him into an opening.

“Watch your head. It get’s low here.”

Scott ducked. He couldn’t see the roof, but he could feel it brushing the hairs on his head. The tunnel opened into a larger cavern. Scott could no longer feel the walls around him, and he cautiously stood up. A lantern flickered and caught, illuminating the rough, rocky surface.

“I would have brought candles and more blankets if I knew I had a firster. This will have to do. Strip.”

Strip? Scott was cold even with the big man’s sweater, and the man was big, his broad shoulders pressed against the rocks, his head close to the rocky roof. Scott wrapped his arms tightly around himself and stood huddled in a ball.

“Clothes will only get in the way. Now do as I ordered,” the man said in a tone that made Scott’s stomach drop to his feet. The man shrugged out of his coat, and his fingers had started on the buttons of his heavy wool shirt. “I expect to be obeyed. Get your clothes off.” The tone was rough and Scott’s fingers moved automatically to pull the sweater over his head before he willed them to stop.

“It’s winter.”

“And you were running through the woods in your shirt sleeves. Clothes will be in the way, pup. Wolves don’t wear pants and a sweater.”

“There is no such thing as a werewolf.” Scott started to back away. He had to get out of here. His car couldn’t be all that far.

The growl was deep and frightening, and the hand that caught Scott’s arm felt unbreakable. A sharp pain tore through Scott’s spine, and he cried out.

“It’s coming. The first shift is painful. It’s excruciating if you fight it.”

“People don’t shift! They don’t turn into werewolves. There are no half men half horses or men who turn into eagles. It’s impossible.”

“It’s not; it only sounds impossible. I’ve shifted hundreds of times, and you are starting to shift now.”

Scott yelped and jerked, his limbs spasming out of control. Pain shot through his body, and a wrenching howl escaped his clenched lips. He fell to the ground; he must be having a seizure. He’d never had a seizure was all Scott could think as he writhed on the floor, sparks of colors dancing across his retina and then blackness.

*****

Scott’s eyes flicked across the numerals on his alarm clock. It was after ten; he was due at work hours ago. He tried to sit up; pain shot through his body, and he felt as weak as a ninety-year-old bedridden for months.

“Slow. You’re going to hurt like hell.”

“Who are you?” What had happened last night? Had he gone out and picked someone up?

“Forgot already? Monty Wallace. I brought you home last night.”

“What did I do?” Scott asked, lying back against the pillow. He didn’t want to face the world if any of the horrible visions that were flowing through his brain were true. He was careful. He didn’t bring strange men home.

“Turned into a wolf and ran for several hours. I’m sure you feel like a truck ran over you.”

That was the understatement of the year. He’d had rough sex once or twice, and it hadn’t felt like this. Turning into a wolf--no fucking way. But why the images? A great, dark wolf with a silver stripe on his back. He smaller and redder. The scent of game in his nostrils. The icy water of the creek splashing on his feet.

“Sweetheart, you’re a werewolf. No use pretending last night didn’t happen.”

“There are no werewolves,” Scott shouted. “What did you do, drug me or something?”

“No,” the man said, his voice flat and without agitation. 

He wasn’t just the man, Scott thought. He had a name. He’d spent the night here last night. Jesus! He was a stranger. “Why are you in my house? I didn’t invite you.”

“I found the keys in your pocket and the address in your wallet. You were in no condition to drive.”

“I was only in no condition to drive because you did something to me. You aren’t my savior; you’re the perpetrator.” Only it would have sounded so much better if Scott could manage to stand up. He didn’t think he could sit up, let alone stand. His legs were limper than overcooked spaghetti.

“You fought it. It’s damaging to fight it.”

“What did I fight?” What had happened last night? Scott was battered; he could see a livid purple bruise on his wrist and red scratch marks up his arm. “You did this.” Scott pointed at his wrist and pulled himself up by the headboard. Every muscle screamed in voices he didn’t know existed as he forced himself to move.

“Let’s get you in the shower. You might be more clear headed after that.”

“I’m not the one who’s having a problem with a clear head. I don’t believe in mythological beings.”

“You’re the one not remembering last night. Some degree of confusion following a first shift is common, but this smells of denial.” Monty picked Scott up. The man was enormously strong. The bathroom was close, but he carried Scott as if he were a small child. He unceremoniously dumped Scott into the shower and started fiddling with the water. “Strip off. Water and PJ’s don’t mix.”

Scott was in a T-shirt and a pair of draw string PJ bottoms. “I’d like some privacy.” Scott couldn’t have had any last night. This man Monty must have changed him; Scott wouldn’t have gone out in his night clothes, maybe to move the trashcans or chase away the neighbors aggravating cat, but he wouldn’t have driven down the road.

“I saw it all last night. Wolves don’t wear clothes.”

“I’m not a wolf,” Scott said with exhausted anger. He was an ordinary human who ate Corn Flakes for breakfast, drank too much coffee, and watched bad television. He might have had a fascination with computer games as a kid, but he’d never believed any of it was real. Kids were far more intelligent than any of those assholes in the Christian councils would ever believe. Scott knew you didn’t run down the street spraying people with machine gun fire or hunt for treasure in haunted castles.

“Werewolf technically. It’s not the same as _Canis lupus_. Shower.”

Scott pulled the curtain. His hand rose above this shoulder only with stabbing pain. He leaned against the cool tiles and struggled to drop his pajama bottoms. Everything was spinning. God, he was going to fall.

“Stop being so stubborn.” Monty was leaning into shower and holding Scott up with one powerful arm wrapped around his waist. “Out of these clothes.” Scott was given no choice. Monty dragged the t-shirt over Scott’s head and dropped the draw string bottoms down his slim hips. “Step out.”

The water was hot, heavenly. Scott leaned his face into the spray. Monty’s arm was still around him and doing things to his hormones that Scott was refusing to acknowledge. This man had hurt him; he wasn’t accepting some kind of crazy comfort. The water was shut off, and Scott was engulfed in the largest towel he owned. Monty had lost his shirt somewhere, and his muscles rippled as he dried Scott. No, he wasn’t going there. Scott tried to pull back; still weak and limp he only succeeded in sagging further against that chest with its black curls shiny with water.

“Bed for you today. You’re not fit for anything else.”

Scott was back in bed. He wasn’t absolutely sure how Monty had so effortlessly manhandled Scott into a passive lump staring at the white ceiling and the unmoving ceiling fan. Maybe it was the pain; it hurt to breathe; moving and struggling was out of the question. Monty had found the extra blankets in the closet, and Scott was tucked into a cozy nest. Oreo would usually have joined him; during the few days he’d spent in bed last winter with bronchitis, Oreo had been his constant companion. Today the little dog had taken one look and instead of asking for a boost up onto the bed, he’d taken off yapping. Under the sofa, Scott expected. That was Oreo’s safe place when the evil vacuum came out of the closet.

Scott felt around his bedside table. He must have left both his laptop and his iPad in the briefcase in the kitchen. Monty was in the kitchen. Scott could hear the clatter of dishes and the hiss of something frying. He could smell the fruitiness of the olive oil and the heady fragrance of garlic. He was starving. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Last night, he’d taken food out. He remembered chopping carrots, but he couldn’t remember eating. The drive-thru. He’d been restless. The moon had been full. He remembered seeing the clouds race over it. The howls. Yes, he’d heard howls last night. His throat vibrated as he heard the music in his ears, the voices raised to the moon. Gleaming white teeth, yellow eyes, bushy tails. No! No! This couldn’t be right! He’d had too much to drink; he’d had a bad reaction to food. As a boy, he’d eaten bacon bits and broken out into frightening red spots. He’d heard people could have hallucinations from food. Violet insisted that MSG did weird things to her body, made her bloat and have migraines. They always had to make sure all Chinese take-out was MSG free or listen to a litany of symptoms for hours.

Scott eased the blankets closer to his ears. He was just tired; that was the problem. He’d sleep another few hours, and then he’d get rid of Monty with the smell of the woods and curls of black chest hairs. He’d be fine with more sleep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Slings and Arrows**

 

**Chapter II**

 

Monty had scoured the cupboards and refrigerator. Either Scott had planned a grocery run, ate out every meal, or lived on pickings that wouldn’t feed a hungry rabbit. Monty guessed the latter. In human form, Scott might be appealing if little boys and waifs floated your boat. In wolf form, he’d looked downright skinny with ribs showing under his coat and a backbone prominent to touch. No wolf in his pack looked like that. Monty had been alpha for five years, and he prided himself on the strength of his pack. 

He had fresh game from last night. A doe who had been hit by a car was easy pickings. They’d brought her down with a slashing tear to her one good hind leg and then a quick finish to her jugular. Usually Monty would have led the hunt, but last night he’d been busy babysitting his new charge Scott. Monty hadn’t even known his name until he’d found the wallet on the dash. He knew all the young members entering the pack or at least he thought he had until last night. Scott Aiken was in none of his record books. No one named Aiken was in the record books. Monty had a good memory for names; an alpha was responsible for his past, present, and future pack. He’d studied the ancient tomes recorded since the earliest monks carefully wrote of the daily events in their manuscripts.

The non-shifters knew of the manuscripts describing the creation of the Slavic alphabet and Vladimir’s conversion to Christianity; The Primary Chronicles of his people were a secret known only to those who were driven to the hills and the fields as the moon became full. They told of an isolated tribe spreading across all the territories of the wolf. Of course some records had been lost or never transcribed. The shifters of North America hadn’t developed a written language, but relied on a rich oral tradition of tales of Ghost Walkers and other beasts that intermingled within the main traditions of the people surrounding them. Monty’s heritage wasn’t as lucky. Nearly two thousand years of persecution as Christianity swept the lands. His people declared to be cohorts of the devil and killed by any means possible. Even today, they remained hidden from society at large; the traditions passed down from father to son or mother to daughter. 

Monty’s grandfather had been alpha of the Mundus Novus pack. As was often the case, the role had skipped one generation with Monty’s father faithfully serving his own father until the mantle fell to Monty. His father had been in the circle last night and dispersed without a word as Monty had dragged Scott into his protection. It was his job to protect all wolves in his pack, and Scott smelled of his pack: the woods, the wide rivers, the abundant white tail deer, the ancient smell of industrial London and peasant villages dotting the estates of the vast Russian interior, the smell of dying fish and overcrowded boats. All this was mixed with the modern world of copy paper, harsh industrial cleaners that burnt the nasal passages, and the fine film of diesel and gasoline that coated all the other scents. Scott smelled of this house and of the little dog that was hidden under the sofa. Monty would have to be careful of the little bundle of fluff close to a shift. The dog smelled of fear and fresh meat and of prey. Eating the pets was not the path to popularity.

Oreo’s tiny head poked around the corner. “I’d thought you’d gone under the sofa for the duration. You hungry? That kibble did look foul. I know I prefer not to eat food dredged up in the lab. I’ll bring some of the lamb I have in the freezer--organic, lovely. This will have to do today.” Monty scooped out a small portion of the venison and ladled it into the dog dish. He set the dish in the doorway and watched the dog retreat yapping to behind an armchair. “I know, buddy, but I’m safe in this form, and you’re Scott’s.”

What belonged to his mate belonged to him and deserved his protection.

No. Scott wasn’t his mate. He was a pack member, an omega for sure, but that didn’t make him Monty’s mate. The man in the sodden field, stunned and compliant under the light of the winter moon. Beautiful. His. Monty’s body had sung at his first approach, goose bumps rising on his arms, and hot electricity thundering to his brain. In wolf form his hair would have been erect, his ears pricked, and his tail proudly over his back. Monty had tasted the deliciousness of the wolf destined to be his mate in the moist, cold air between them. He’d stroked that fine hair and rubbed that beautiful cheek only in a way that was appropriate for a mate. Monty had felt the collective but almost silent gasp from his pack. They’d known also. His father surely knew that Monty had gone home with the new, scrawny pup. He wasn’t lead beta because he failed to observe. He’d expect it to be completed by tonight.

Monty ran his fingers through his long, sleek hair. He could have taken Scott last night. It had been his right. He was alpha. This was his mate. Once mated the ties would be everlasting. Nothing except death could separate a mated pair. He wanted Scott; his body demanded Scott, but Scott didn’t know, didn’t understand. Monty was too human; he’d heard that whispered enough times; he’d heard it in the carefully coded criticism from his father. No one had challenged him yet, but without Scott bound to his side, his days were numbered. The pack had seen Monty touch Scott. To back down now would be an unforgivable weakness.

Monty stirred the sauce. It was burning, and he needed to tempt Scott to eat. The man and the wolf must trust him; Scott must take food from Monty’s hand; he had to curl against Monty’s greater bulk and thick coat and take comfort. He had to accept his place; he had to want his place. In the past Monty would have taken Scott. It was his right at least according to the ancient texts, and some of the elders. Monty was alpha; the wolves were his to command, and his mate was to bow to his wishes. He didn’t want a mate who feared him; he wanted a mate who loved him.

Love, did he dare think of the word? They were cursed to mate out of their kind. Humans feared them, loathed them, and still dreamed of eradicating the last shifter. They were the devil’s spawn. Scott was so beautiful, so fragile, so unspoiled. Monty wouldn’t break him to have him. Monty couldn’t do it; he was too human. Without Scott, Monty would lose everything: his love, his pack, and probably his very life, but with him broken he’d lose his soul.

Monty turned the stove down to a low simmer. He had to win Scott over. He had to make Scott willingly give of himself. Monty needed information. Scott should have known he was a shifter. By tradition, it was passed from father to son or mother to daughter. The genetic gift, Monty had been taught it was a gift. It had been drilled into his brain that he had both the gift of a shifter and of an alpha. He must uphold the traditions; he must protect his own; he must mate. Procreation was a gift from the gods; a gift he was going to abandon. The werewolves couldn’t mate with their own kind if viable young were the goal. Two shifters together risked pups with little control of the shift, pups whose predominant state was as a wolf, not a human. The full moon heralded twenty-four hours as human before the shift back to wolf rather than the reverse. Monty was destined to mate with his own and to produce no offspring. He’d known for years, and as he consolidated his power as alpha he’d begun to hint that he was different. It wasn’t unheard of, just not in modern times. There were legends of a male alpha with his brother or a female alpha with her sister. Supposedly the first in the New World from the Old World after the water rose and destroyed the land bridge between Alaska and Siberia was such a pair. They were listed on the ship’s manifest as  brothers, but this may have been a convention of the time. It was impossible to tell if brother truly meant brother or if it meant what he and Scott were. Alpha and omega destined to run together.

Monty peered into the bedroom. Scott was curled into a tight ball, the blankets covering everything but a few streaks of his dark chestnut hair. His chest rose and fell rhythmically; he deserved to sleep. Last night had been difficult, and the future would be no easier until Scott accepted who he was and accepted his place in the pack and at Monty’s side. Monty tugged the door shut. He’d let Scott sleep. There was time enough for their difficult future. 

Monty crossed the hallway to the extra bedroom that served as a home office and storage for furniture that must have fit nowhere else and must have been carted from some college apartment. Rickety bookshelves lined one wall with a mixture of cheap paperbacks that could have been purchased at any grocery store or airport newsstand, left over college textbooks, and heavy weight autobiographies. A few were the popular ones on the _New York Times_ best sellers list, but most were obscure historical figures.

Monty opened the metal filing cabinet. It was meticulously ordered, alphabetized with neatly printed labels. Scott’s college transcripts and diploma were neatly filed along with his mortgage contract and his car insurance. Monty knew he shouldn’t pry, but he needed information on Scott. He had to explain to Scott that he was both a werewolf and a member of Monty’s pack. He should have learned this at his father’s knee. Who was his father? Monty couldn’t think of anyone who’d been lost from the pack. Werewolves mated for life; it was an incomprehensible sin that Scott’s father would have left his mate. Only death would part them. A werewolf owed a lifetime of loyalty to any human willing to join in such a union.

Monty found Scott’s passport and birth certificate in a file labeled personal documents. The father was listed as John Doe. Monty took a deep breath and carefully filed the documents back in their place and returned to the kitchen.

It had happened hundreds of years ago; unmated werewolves in the throes of desperation to procreate forced themselves on the weak and unprotected. They vanished into the night potentially leaving an offspring who would be outcast and killed. Taking a mate by force had always been an acceptable practice; abandoning a mate was not. According to the ancient texts, abandoning a mate earned the harshest of penalties either banishment or death, and for a species hardwired for pack behavior banishment was nothing more than a sentence to a slow death. Fast death under the teeth of the alpha was more humane, no matter how much it made Monty’s human side shudder. He hoped to never fight for real. Posturing and scrapping was normal; Monty had badly scarred the ear of one of the beta’s the first year he ruled the pack, but a true fight was a rarity.

Monty stirred the sauce on the stove. It might be a rarity, unheard of in modern times, but it was a possibility if he failed to have Scott at his side by the next full moon, twenty-nine days to win Scott’s trust and loyalty, twenty-nine days to make Scott accept that he was not only a werewolf, but the rarest of werewolves, an omega destined to be the alpha’s mate. It was a love match, or at least it was on Monty’s side. He’d known the instant his senses had focused on the lonely figure in the field, the strange blue eyes rare in werewolf physiology, the pheromones that wafted off his mate, the short hair that would feel better between his fingers when it was allowed to grow to a more appropriate length. Scott was his; Scott had to be his. Monty banged his fist on the counter.

Bruising himself would not be a good thing. Being angry and possessive would be even worse. Monty was an alpha werewolf. Being possessive was who he was, but Scott wasn’t ready for that. Scott wasn’t ready for anything; he still denied his own heritage.

Monty ladled the stew into a bowl and after a quick search of the drawers and cabinets found napkins and whole wheat crackers. The smell would wake Scott when Monty went in the room. Scott’s senses were heightened after the shift, and hunger would overcome his fear and reserve. Monty would sit on the edge of bed, his own bowl in his lap. They would eat and chat as ordinary human friends. Could Monty even assume the role of friend? He didn’t know Scott, not as a friend. They hadn’t partaken in human customs so important for friendship: a shared meal, an evening in a sports bar where the loud shouts hurt Monty’s ears, a weekend trip to Las Vegas where the lights were blinding to a species blessed with night vision.

Monty pushed open the door of the bedroom with his shoulder. Scott was stirring, one hand sliding across the mound of blankets. He turned with a groan. He blinked, his blue eyes hazy with sleep.

“It’s you.”

It wasn’t exactly a welcome, but Scott hadn’t snarled and thrown Monty out. Of course, snarling probably wasn’t Scott’s forte. He was an omega after all. Even in his human form, he was going to be as submissive as Monty was dominant. On the extremes the wolf personality couldn’t be hidden, and for Monty and Scott it would be more extreme: two from the same pack, both wolves, both the same sex.

“Were you hoping for a movie star?” Monty asked, keeping the conversation light.

“No,” Scott said, half turning away from Monty.

“It’s going to be OK.” Monty set the tray on the bedside table and stroked his fingers through the short, dark chestnut hair. He wanted to touch, to soothe, to protect. This was his mate. Monty resisted the drive to wrap Scott in his arms. The protection and the dominance that flowed through Monty’s blood would terrify Scott. Monty had to temper his instincts; he must control the wolf inside of him.

“It’s not going to be OK. I have a stranger in the house, feeding me soup.”

It wasn’t soup; it was stew, but mentioning that didn’t seem like a good idea.

“Scott.” Monty searched for his most gentle voice. “We ran together last night. We are not strangers.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Scott’s voice rose in anger. “But I can tell you there are no fucking werewolves outside of Hollywood and those stupid books for tween girls. I’ve never seen a wolf use the stove.”

“I’m in human form as are you, and we’re werewolves, not wolves. There is a big difference.”

“And you’re going to tell me my neighbor’s a vampire?” Scott spat.

“Vampires are mythical creatures; werewolves are not.”

“And where’s the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, and the leprechaun at the end of the rainbow?”

Monty smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I believe Santa Claus is an invention of the human mind to entertain small children during the dark days of winter. There is a pack who frequents the Arctic Circle region. They have not reported elves madly building toys or flying reindeer with or without red noses. As for the Easter Bunny, I’m afraid she might have been eaten, but leprechauns do exist. Their native region is Ireland of course, but there is a small U.S. colony.”

“You’re putting me on.”

“Some.” Monty smiled as he saw Scott relax. At least they were talking, and Scott wasn’t shouting, even if it was as silly as talking about the Easter Bunny. “We didn’t eat the Easter Bunny, and at least as far as I know leprechauns are imaginary creatures along with the pots of gold at the end of the rainbow. It’s been postulated by several of our scientists that sprites, gnomes, and other undersized mythical beings could and should exists, but none have ever been found, and they are either extinct or never existed. There are other shifters. Have you read about the unusual migration of the snowy owls?”

Scott shook his head.

“Owls are one of the shifter species. Since they have the ability of flight, they will shift for travel. It is the centennial grand convention of Strigidae shifters. We are forced to travel to our conventions in human form. Man and his machines are far too deadly for a wolf on foot.”

“Really,” Scott said sardonically.

“Really,” Monty replied in the same tone. “Scott.” Monty reached out and stoked the pale cheek. “You shifted last night. You cannot deny it.”

“I cannot shift into a wolf. It’s insane.”

“It may be insane, but it happened. Now eat the stew I prepared. You really do need to go food shopping.”

“Change the subject, why don’t you.”

“Scott,” Monty said in a low growl. “I am not debating facts with you. You are a shifter.” You are my mate, Monty added silently. Scott would flee if Monty said aloud what he knew, what Scott knew if he listened to his body. Despite the words, Scott gentled under Monty’s touch. Last night, which Scott refused to remember, he’d stood under Monty’s hand; he’d run beside the alpha wolf, graceful and beautiful. He was a beautiful man, but he was a more beautiful wolf. He was Monty’s destiny.

“Fine,” Scott spat, struggling to pull himself upright in bed. Monty knew if Scott hadn’t been a near invalid from the shift last night, he’d be in Monty’s face screaming. Those blue eyes sparkled with fury; Monty longed to see them adoring and compliant, but obviously not today. “Show me. Shift for me.”

“I can’t today,” Monty said.

“And you did last night. Bull crap! What did you do to me last night? Don’t fuck with me”

“Shh.” Monty stroked Scott’s cheek, pained at the resounding flinch of his mate. This was his mate and he was afraid of his touch. He needed to long for Monty’s touch; Monty knew he was fighting every instinct that ordered him to take Scott in his arms, to subdue him, to love him, and to claim him. His mate couldn’t bear his touch and flinched from the gentlest of caresses. 

“Get away from me you lying piece of shit! I almost believed you.”

“Believe me,” Monty growled, taking both Scott’s shoulders and pinning him to the pillows. Horrible if he were human, but they weren’t human. Scott had to know; he had to smell the pheromones. “I can’t shift because it was the full moon last night. For forty-eight hours after the full moon, we are cursed to remain in the human form. I am still a werewolf. Smell me.”

Scott turned his head away, refusing to drink in the scent that would establish Monty’s identity.

“Scott, listen to me.” Monty could feel Scott’s heart slowing. His pupil’s were dilated, the vast blackness almost hiding the rare and exotic blue. He licked his lips. Submission. Tentative and afraid, but submission. “Good pup.” Monty eased one hand off the shaking shoulder and with a single finger traced the shell of the ear and down the jawline. So much stronger when his ears were pricked and the moonlight flashed against the canines, but he was exquisite in this fragile form also. “Pup,” Monty whispered.

“I hate that name,” Scott tried to growl, but it came out more like a mewl.

“You are a pup.” Monty looked down at the body beneath him. He was no longer pinning Scott, and Scott lay exposed underneath him, his neck bare. Monty could take his mate; his body screamed to take his mate. No. Scott was too human; he didn’t understand what his body was offering. Monty dropped a chaste kiss on the exposed neck and rolled sideways. “Pup, someday I won’t have enough willpower to do that. Don’t offer what you don’t want taken.”

Scott looked over at Monty, his expression confused before it changed to anger. “I didn’t offer you anything. You jumped on me. I had some sort of accident last night.”

Monty laughed and ruffled Scott’s hair. “I’ve never heard shifting described as a car accident before.”

“I did not and I do not shift,” Scott said through gritted teeth.

“Pup, it will be easier for you if you do not deny it. Your father should have told you.”

“I never knew my father. He died before I was born.”

Monty stroked Scott’s flank, a male shifter without a father. The pack should have taken him in, should have raised Scott as their own. Orphan wolves went to the alpha’s family.  “Sit up and eat your stew. Tell me what you know about your father.”

Scott struggled into a sitting position with Monty’s help and reached for the bowl. He had to be starving, shifting required enormous energy. Monty hoped it wasn’t only Scott’s famished state that made him compliant. Monty wanted to believe he was making progress with his mate. He had to believe he was making progress. The other outcome was too awful to contemplate. 

“This is good,” Scott said after several spoonfuls.

“So I’m good for something?” Monty asked with a laugh.

Scott glanced at Monty. It wasn’t trust that Monty saw in his eyes, but suspicion and Monty hoped curiosity mixed with longing.

“Pup, I’m not an ogre. I even cooked for you. Now eat up.”

They finished the stew in silence. Monty needed to find out more about Scott’s parents, especially his father, but he was hesitant to break what was a comfortable silence. 

“Do you want more?” Monty asked, swallowing the automatic endearment of pup. He wanted to stroke his pup’s fur, to rest his hand on his back, to see those eyes full of bliss instead of fear and suspicion.

“No, I’m fine.” Scott put the bowl back on the nightstand and struggled to swing his legs to the edge of the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“To take a piss, if you have to know. I don’t know about you werewolves, but we humans have to pee.”

“That doesn’t change much for us either,” Monty said, trying to keep his tone light. A snarling and snappish omega would quickly raise the ire of the pack, but Monty knew this wasn’t the time to chide Scott for his bad manners. He didn’t know he was a werewolf. How could he be expected to understand the social customs and the pack structure, to understand that he was destined to support and obey the alpha? Human society preached individual rights, but werewolves depended on the pack. Alone a werewolf was as good as dead.

Scott leaned heavily on the bed and groaned as he struggled to stand upright. “Shit!”

“Slowly. It will be better by tomorrow.”

“I have to work; I can’t be an invalid.”

“Call in and work from home tomorrow. You should be up to that.”

“So you can poison my mind! So you can continue to feed me all this crap about being a werewolf.” Scott took an ineffective swing at Monty.

“Don’t.” Monty caught Scott’s wrist and squeezed hard. “You don’t challenge me.”

“And why the fuck not? Get off me!”

“No,” Monty growled. “Yield to me. You are mine.”

“Fucking freak!” Scott crashed toward the telephone. “Get out of my house! Get out of my life!”

“I can’t,” Monty said. He could hold Scott easily. In human form, Monty was bigger and broader with real muscles from daily outdoor work. Instinct demanded he subdue Scott, that Monty take what he wanted and what he needed. But Monty was more than the wolf. He could smell the stench of fear on Scott. Every muscle in Scott vibrated in terror.

“Don’t.” Scott’s voice cracked in desperation. “Please.”

Monty dropped his hands. He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t break this man. He couldn’t bear the terror in his mate’s voice. “I won’t harm you. I don’t want to harm you.”

Scott stared back, his hand clutching the bedside lamp as if he were going to use it as a weapon. “Don’t touch me.”

“Can you walk to the bathroom?”

Scott took one stumbling step forward and his knees buckled. He crashed to the ground, an unearthly wail from his lips. He curled into a ball, his arms wrapped around his knees.

Monty dropped to one knee. He wanted to do all the things that Scott wouldn’t allow, that Scott feared. Scott should be wrapped in Monty’s arms and tucked against his broad chest. Scott should be protected and cherished. He shouldn’t be on the floor, choking back sobs and shaking in terror.

“Scott, you need my help to the bathroom. I know you’re afraid of me. I know you’re afraid of what happened last night. I couldn’t imagine finding out alone and at your majority that I was a shifter. I knew as soon as I was old enough to know what should be spoken about only at home and what was safe with all.” Monty hesitated and scooted closer to Scott. “I’m your alpha. You are a member of my pack. It is my duty, my heritage, the very core of my soul to protect my pack. I will not harm you.”

“I’m not a werewolf,” Scott choked out, not lifting his head from the floor.

“What happened last night?”

“You drugged me.”

Monty suppressed a sigh. Of course being a werewolf seemed preposterous to Scott. He had no background except the drivel that came out of Hollywood about demons, werewolves, and vampires. The undead was preposterous. Latching onto the idea of a hallucinogenic drug would only be natural. Drugs would be something Scott could understand. Drugs had a tangible meaning for Scott.

“What drug could I have given you that would make you this weak and sick? Think, Scott. What did you do last night?”

“I don’t know.” It was a whine of a desperate pack member. 

Monty reached to stroke Scott’s back. The last time he’d heard this whine Jacob was stuck in a trap; his rear paw brutally crushed in the steel jaws. The pain had prevented him from shifting back. Jacob couldn’t open the trap with hands he didn’t have. They’d saved him, but he still walked with a limp, and his fur was marred by a jagged white scar.

“Scott, I know you haven’t forgotten everything. What happened last night?”

“I was in a field.” Scott’s voice sounded dreamy and detached as if it didn’t belong to the huddled figure in front of Monty. “It was cold. There was a full moon. Other people were there.”

“And then?” Monty asked gently.

“You were there.” Scott raised his head. “You were in the middle of that field. You gave me a sweater.”

“Good pup.” Monty stroked Scott’s back. “Go on.”

“I don’t know.” Scott stared at Monty, his eyes wide with horror or maybe terror. “You changed. You were enormous. You were black with a sliver stripe. No! No! It can’t be.”

“It was,” Monty said in the flattest voice he could find. “The alpha of our pack has always been marked thus. Such is written in The Primary Chronicles.”

“It can’t be.” Scott struggled to sit up and fell back against Monty. “It can’t be,” Scott repeated.

“Accept it.” Monty wrapped his arms around Scott and held his newest pack member. “I’m your guide now. You have to trust me no matter how impossible, improbable, or horrible it seems.” 

“It can’t be,” Scott repeated.

 “It is.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Slings and Arrows III**

 

Scott flipped through the files on his computer. Monty had left last night after declaring Scott fit. Scott didn’t feel fit. The office looked the same as always, but why did it feel so strange? Scott was sitting in the same cubicle he’d inhabited for the last two years; a picture of his mother and of Oreo pinned in front of his desk. Some people had pictures or inspirational sayings or goofy quotes all over an entire side of their cubicle. Scott had never felt the need to go overboard on the interior decorating. 

Scott shielded his eyes from the harsh overhead lights and braced himself to ignore their interminable buzzing. He’d never remembered the buzzing being this loud. Violet had always complained about the lights in here, but Violet was different with her long skirts, bangle bracelets, and scads of necklaces. No, it wasn’t her clothes; it was her strange beliefs. She had crystals and strange magic dust in her cubicle. Of course, she’d made more than anyone else at the same level on her accounts last year.

Shit! He was musing about Violet being eccentric, and he’d spent two days with a man who insisted they were werewolves. It was the most elaborate hoax Scott had ever heard; he’d even started to believe it himself. Scott forced himself to focus on the computer screen. He was supposed to be working, not speculating on implausible events. His stomach rumbled, a deep noise reminiscent of an impending volcanic eruption. He’d only had toast and coffee this morning; yesterday Monty had made an enormous breakfast after what had to have been an awful night on Scott’s sofa. It was an IKEA model: cheap, narrow, and uncomfortable. Scott raked his fingers through his short hair, his eyes resting on the screen, but the numbers and figures remained unseen. 

Monty was handsome in a rugged sort of way, if only he hadn’t come with all that strange baggage. Werewolf? Ridiculous. Farmer, yes. Scott believed that side of the story. Monty had calluses on his hands, and his cheeks were already showing signs of wind and sun. His boots had been nicked and scraped, not boots that he put on for the weekend grocery shopping.

“Daydreaming.” 

Scott startled at the rattle of beads and wrinkled his nose at the scent of incense candles clinging to Violet’s clothes. “Thinking.”

“What you need is a nice cup of tea. I heard your stomach growl three cubicles over.” Violet reached out for Scott’s hand. “We’ll take an early lunch.”

“I still have several hours of work,” Scott said automatically.

“And you won’t get any done until you’re fed,” Violet said with a laugh and a swish of her long skirts. “Come, sweetie.”

Scott bristled at the sweetie. He wasn’t a sweetie or a dearie and hadn’t been since he was old enough to escape the cloying pats of Great Aunt Edna. Sweetie and dearie were part of Violet’s charm, or at least Scott thought it was. She used it with her clients along with her astrology, tarot cards, and probably a crystal ball. Oh well, all the economic gurus used crystal balls; some just cloaked them in more scientific terms.

Scott shut his computer down and followed the trail of green and gold swirling fabric and wafts of incense and spices down the hallway. Violet grabbed her coat, a vivid and shocking pink, and pulled it tight around her slim frame. Beneath her long coat only the edges of her skirt and her shiny black boots were visible.

“Don’t you have more clothes?” she asked as Scott zipped his light windbreaker.

He hadn’t been cold this morning. It was only raw, not Arctic cold. Only a light frost had dotted the grass and trees, and it had been well on the way to melting off as he’d driven into work this morning. It would be gone by now, especially in the city with the heat of the buildings and the exhaust of the cars clogging the streets.

“It’s not all that cold,” Scott said, tugging the jacket collar up more to please her than because he feared the chill.

Violet raised a carefully penciled eyebrow. “I see. We have a walk.”

“I won’t be cold, but we could always eat in the cafeteria.” It was almost eleven, and the cafeteria started serving lunch as 10:30. It wasn’t the greatest place for a private chat with its warehouse feeling and glass walls surrounding three sides. Nothing said in the cafeteria would remain private longer than five minutes. Maybe that was the purpose of the naked space, so employees wouldn’t gather together and conspire.

“We’ll walk fast.” Violet said, holding open the door as they stepped out into the street

The city was only moderately busy. Most people who inhabited the warren of office buildings were still deep inside their cubicles, or if they were a bit luckier, behind oversized desks with a mug of coffee and someone screening their calls. Scott hurried after Violet who walked rapidly uptown before nearly disappearing into an alley between a Catholic church built for an immigrant population that had long ago moved to the more prosperous suburbs and a government social services office. Violet ducked into the third shop in the narrow alley, a small building with dirty windows and a simple sign marked “Restaurant” with no other elaboration or decoration. 

The air was rich and heavy with spices that Scott didn’t recognize. Couples and groups huddled around darkened tables lit only by the small braziers with their glowing coals. Meat roasted on spits, and Scott found himself salivating at the rich aroma. Violet was obviously familiar with the place as she pushed through a faded green tapestry to a back room lit by dozens of candles on tables and in heavy gold sconces along the wall.

“This looks like a fire hazard,” Scott said, not taking his eyes from the flickering flames as one candle encroached on a decorative tassel.

“We’ll sit close to the door.” Violet chose a booth next to a door with a hand lettered exit sign. “Sit. The food’s wonderful here.”

The aromas tickled Scott’s nostrils, and he knew the food had to be wonderful, but that didn’t lessen the fire hazard as he eyed the doors rusty bolts. “Do you come here often?” Scott asked, trying to reassure himself that he hadn’t fallen into some strange and half forgotten world. This was the twenty-first century with smart phones and round the clock news channels. People didn’t light restaurants with only candles and cook with live coals on crowded tables.

A tall man, gaunt and unnaturally pale, sidled up to the table, interrupting Scott’s musing on fire hazards. “Dear Violet, have you brought a new guest?” he asked in a voice that sounded thin and unused. “Is he new to the city?”

“No, he just didn’t know. His background is rather limited.”

The man half bowed and faded back into the gloom without taking their order or offering any drinks. A young boy, nearly as pale as the first man and surely too young to be out of school, appeared with a bucket, a ladle and two pewter mugs. He filled each with water and disappeared without a word. Scott stared into the mug and sniffed hesitantly. It was water, cool and fresh all his senses told him. He held the mug up to his lips and swallowed a long, cold gulp.

“Is this your regular lunch spot?” Scott asked, his eyes roving around the small dining room. He wasn’t an expert; in fact he knew nothing about antiquities, but the tapestries and elaborate candle holders looked real. He’d expect them in a museum, not a dive. Maybe dive wasn’t the right word. At dives they served hamburgers or mom’s meatloaf. The air smelled of venison and rabbit and succulent lamb with wild berries from the native bushes, not chocolate shakes and french fries.

“Sometimes,” Violet said with a shrug and a rattle of beads around her wrist. “I figured you’d enjoy it; your type comes here often.”

My type? Scott didn’t dine in strange and smoky back rooms with antique tapestries and child labor. The young boy appeared again, both arms weighted down by heavy trays. He set a loaf of dark bread with a thick crust dusted with seeds onto the table along with a knife and a ramekin of butter. From his other tray, he removed a platter of fruits. Violet reached for the grapes and plucked a handful from the bunch.

“Uncle will bring the meats, Mistress Violet,” the boy said with a hurried bow. He scurried back among the other tables before Scott could ask about the meats or formulate any logical question about the restaurant.

“His family owns the restaurant?” Scott asked, hearing the banality of the question in his own ears.

“For generations,” Violet said and pushed the fruit closer to Scott. “You are not an obligate carnivore. Eat.”

Scott took a slice of melon, its flesh orange and ripe even in February. The juice dripped down his chin as he took the first bite. Scott was reaching for a second piece as a huge hand fell on his shoulder.

“Who is this? Is he rogue?” 

Scott turned, trying to shake the man off. He stank of tobacco and canned meats. Scott felt the hairs on the back of his neck become erect. This was danger. He reared around; a low growl came unbidden from his throat.

“Not all werewolves will eat from your hand, especially one without a mate and without a pack,” the big man said and grabbed Scott by his collar. “This one is dangerous and out alone.”

Scott struggled in the man’s grasp, unable to shake loose or get purchase with his feet. He desperately sucked breath through his constricted throat.

“Put him down, Paul. He’s Monty’s. I can smell it on him. He won’t be dangerous now.”

Paul threw Scott back into the chair with a thud. “Filthy werewolves.”

“No worse than grizzlies, and you know Monty polices his own. There will be no problems.”

Scott rubbed his throat and reached for the tankard of water. He didn’t know what was going on; he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was going on, but Violet in her skirts and baubles was defending him from the giant of a man who had seemed hell bent on killing him in a public restaurant. The other customers seemed oblivious to the ruckus. They bent over their food, eating heartily. No, that wasn’t right. Two men at a far table had stood; Scott stared into the taller man’s black eyes; the man nodded and raised an eyebrow. He was familiar, but from where? There was a scrape of boots across the floor and the smell of woods and livestock. He smelled like Monty, the same mix of hay and sheep and pine.

“What are you doing here alone?”

“He’s with me,” Violet said with steel in her voice that made all the men’s eyes snap toward her. “Victor, I assume he is yours. You need to keep a closer eye on him, or he will get in trouble. I cannot be his private keeper now that he is of age.”

“I will tell Monty,” Victor mumbled and stepped back from the table.

“Paul,” Violet continued in the same voice. “He is claimed. Stay away from him.”

“Yes,” Paul said and lumbered back toward his seat.

“What is going on?” Scott asked, clinging to the solidness of the water tankard, letting the cold seep through his flesh. He was dreaming. He wasn’t at the movies. “What is going on?” Scott repeated, trying to cling to any ounce of realism he could find. “I’m going back.”

“You mustn’t.” The words were final and made Scott sink into his seat. “It will not be safe. There are others beside Paul.”

“What is this place?” Scott asked, his eyes roaming over the room. People--oh, God, were they really people or some strange shifter creatures--had gone back to eating. Victor and his cohort weren’t eating. They were flanking the door, looking menacing. There was the emergency exit, the one marked with the cardboard sign, but Scott didn’t think he could get the bolts and chains off fast enough. 

“Scott.” Violet said, placing a hand over Scott’s. “This is a restaurant that caters to a special clientele.”

“People who shift,” Scott said derisively. “It’s a myth; it’s not possible.”

“You’re a werewolf; you shifted at the full moon.”

Scott stared at Violet. Was everyone crazy? Was this some kind of government experiment to test a group hallucinogen? His roommate in college had thought everything was a government plot. He kept gold coins in the sock drawer for when the currency collapsed. Werewolves did not exist.

“I’m a seer. I know. I was pretty sure before this week, but now I smell the shift on you.”

Scott drew several rapid breaths before forcing himself to breathe slower. He’d hyperventilated as a child; he wasn’t going to do that here, not in this weird restaurant. It had been bad enough as a child, sitting at his desk with all the other kids watching as he blew into a paper bag.

“Relax.” Violet smiled. “It’s been generations since my family pointed out shifters to the authorities. The Inquisition cured us of that particular vice; women seers were considered witches. The fate of a witch was easily as bad as the fate of a werewolf.”

“The waiter,” Scott said, gulping at the water.

“He is a seer, as is his young nephew. We monitor the shifter population in the area. Our safety is tied to keeping you safe. With a cell phone camera in every pocket and purse, a shifter who changes in an unsecured location puts us all at risk.”

“People do not shift into wild animals.”

“Some people do, and you are one of those some people. You cannot deny it forever.”

“I do none of those things. People do none of those things,” Scott shouted, rising in his chair. “I’m going back to work.”

“Do not walk out of here. You’ll kill Monty.”

“What?” Scott looked over his shoulder at Violet. It would only be a few steps to the door and another few steps to outside. Down the alley and left at the courthouse. He’d be back to the world he knew, back to the world he understood.

“You’re a true omega. Monty must have an omega. True omegas are rare.”

What was an omega? Nothing made sense. Scott belonged out there in the world where the rise and fall of the stock market drove the economy, not in some Renaissance Fair of a restaurant. 

The boy with the tray was back; his dark hair fell over his face, obscuring his eyes, his cheeks marble white in contrast to the black of his hair. The boy placed the meats on the table. There were no braziers; that must have been only in the front room. The meat smelled of lamb and rosemary. Scott’s mouth watered; he was hungry, starving in fact. He could imagine the meat passing his canines and sliding down his throat. He could imagine the juice on his lips. Scott reached forward and picked up a cube of meat. He licked his lips. He chewed and swallowed. He reached for the next piece. He couldn’t stop himself; he gulped down the next piece.

“Sit down; you’re making Victor nervous.” Violet tapped the chair with her hand. Her nails were pink today. Last week they’d been black, or maybe it was green.

Scott perched on the chair and reached for another piece of meat. He had to have the meat. The juice, the spices, the warmth--he had to have it all. He needed meat; his body required meat.

Violet pushed the platter closer to Scott. “I prefer the fruit.”

That sounded so ordinary, talking about food preferences in this crazy place. Everything here was crazy; the world was crazy. Violet was talking about fruit. She’d just with a straight face told him he was a werewolf, told him he was an omega. Omega was the last letter of the Greek alphabet; it was the physic’s symbol for an ohm, a unit of electrical resistance. 

“Finish the meat.”

Scott looked down at the platter; the meat was almost gone, only a few stray pieces were scattered at the farthest edge.

“You will need more meat now.”

Scott froze as he lifted a chunk of meat to his mouth. He didn’t need more meat; he wasn’t any different than he’d been a few days ago. He rarely ate red meat.

“Werewolves need meat, especially young werewolves.”

“I am not a werewolf,” Scott said loudly and sharply. He jerked his head as he heard a low growl from the back of the room. His eyes met Victor’s for an instant before he lowered them to the table. He couldn’t meet those sharp black eyes.

“Scott, you are a werewolf; I am a seer. We cannot change our genetics; we cannot change our destinies. You shifted at the last full moon. You are twenty-five; you can no longer escape your genes.”

“You know nothing of my genetics; you know nothing of me. I grew up in a brick ranch; I watched Sesame Street. I played basketball until I stopped growing. I’m not--”

Violet tapped her shiny fingernail on the table, the beads banging and clanking on her wrist. “Don’t lie.”

“I am not a werewolf.” Scott heard the desperation in his own voice. He had to believe he wasn’t a werewolf. He couldn’t be a werewolf. He was an ordinary guy. He ate turkey for Christmas dinner and forgot to call his mom on her birthday unless he programmed it into his phone. 

“Even you no longer believe that.”

Scott had never noticed the color of Violet’s eyes. They were green, a dark rich green of the forest with large black pupils. Her gaze was unwavering, demanding. Scott dropped his eyes and swallowed hard. Why couldn’t he stare back? Why couldn’t he demand to be heard?

“You’re an omega,” Violet said softly. “You must yield to authority. I am a seer; I have authority. That is why we were killed as witches, as the devil’s consort. The male seers were feared or revered, but the women were burned. Woman must not have authority; we must be the silent support of society, raise the children and care for the husband. A seer must do more.”

“It’s not the Middle Ages.”

“No, at least not here, but many still long for such absolutes. We are in this together.”

“What is this?” Scott asked, raking his fingers through his hair.

“This is living on the fringe. This is being different. This is not about flowing skirts, shocking nail polish, and dozens of incense candles. In fact I hate incense,” Violet said with a wry grin. “It clogs my sinuses.”

“Why do you burn incense?” It was a stupid question. Of all the questions he should ask that was one of the stupidest. He should ask Victor and his buddy about Monty. How did Violet know Monty? 

“I was afraid you’d smell me.”

“Smell you?”

“Your senses are heightened. A werewolf can recognize a seer. It’s an evolutionary necessity.”

Scott fingered his water tankard. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d been different enough. He’d never known his father. He was a gay kid in a small town. Maybe he’d been lucky that way. He’d kept it under the radar through high school. He’d known, but he buried it in the computers, in games with mythical creatures and brave warriors. He hadn’t known about this--a werewolf, an omega. He swallowed a gulp of water. He’d known he was a submissive. He didn’t want to be. He fought it, and he denied it, but he knew. An omega was a submissive. Monty hadn’t come out and said it. Violet wasn’t saying it, but who else would go with an alpha? Who else would want an alpha? Want? 

He didn’t know Monty; he couldn’t want Monty. Monty was the man who’d broken into his house, who invaded his couch. He’d cooked Scott breakfast and dinner. Monty had talked or tried to talk. He’d slept on the couch. He hadn’t touched Scott. Well, he’d stroked Scott’s hair and helped him in the shower, but he hadn’t touched him, not in the way Scott had wanted.

Wanted?

Scott had wanted it. He’d wanted to submit to Monty. Scott could still smell the scent; he could still feel the warmth of Monty’s hands on his skin.

Scott dipped his fingers in the water and sniffed it. It was water. He wasn’t drugged. He could still taste the meat in his mouth; he could still feel where his collar had chafed his neck. He could feel Victor’s eyes burning through him. The hair on the back of his neck stiffened; he swallowed a growl.

“Let’s pretend I’m one of these things, a shifter, a werewolf, like in the games. What are the rules? What do I do?” Scott could play games; he was good at role playing games.

“You go to Monty. You belong with Monty. You will only be safe with Monty,” Violet said.

“I like the long form rules, not the short form,” Scott said, trying to sound flippant. 

“What has Monty told you?”

Scott shrugged. “Not much.” Monty hadn’t said anything about this: shifters of all shapes, seers, crazy restaurants. Scott looked around the restaurant, keeping his eyes well away from Victor. The tables were crowded with people--no, not people shifters. Some at first glance looked normal; none looked any odder than Violet. There was a man in a baseball cap for a perennial losing team on the opposite coast. There was a woman in a skirt and a cardigan sweater. She looked like his second grade teacher, who read _Little House on the Prairie_ incessantly, and had written in Scott’s report that he was too shy and should play dodge ball. He’d hated dodge ball, almost as much as he hated _Little House on the Prairie_.

“Monty is the alpha of the pack.”

“I know that.” It was the only thing Scott knew, but what did it mean? What were the rules of interacting with an alpha? Games had rules. The wizard could prepare the sleeping draught, and the knight could swing the broadsword. After three levels, you could survive a stabbing. What were the rules of a werewolf?

“He’s different than most, different than all that I know.” Violet said, leaning toward Scott. “He wants a male for a mate; he requires a male for a mate.”

“He’s gay. I know we’re the favorite whipping boys of the politicians, but we’re not that different.”

“Monty is a werewolf, not a human, and he’s an alpha werewolf.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“So he did tell you. Werewolves mate out of species. They mate to procreate.”

“We can’t procreate. Two sperm together do not make a baby.”

“Brilliant. You learned something in sex-ed.”

“What else am I supposed to say?” Scott smacked the table with his palm. “What does this mean? What am I supposed to do?”

“You need to go with Monty. You need to ask Monty.”

“He talks about fucking myths. What does it mean for me?” Scott tugged at his tie. He was suddenly hot. It was stifling in here. He needed air.

“Scott.” Violet ran her finger down her tankard of water. “There is little known of this. Monty must depend on myths and legends. He cannot look to his pack or to his father. The two of you must find your way together.”

“Is that all you can tell me?” Scott leaned across the table. He wasn’t good at this intimidation thing. In fact he was terrible at it, but he had to know. He was an omega. He was a werewolf. What did it mean? It couldn’t mean what he’d found on the internet. None of that could be true.

“Even as a seer, I don’t know all,” Violet said after a long pause. “The alpha and omega pairs are obscure in our past. Our history mirrors the ways of those around us when such things were not done.” Violet paused again and rotated a string of beads around her neck. “The pack will accept it. Monty is strong and well regarded, but you must stand at his back and protect his flank. No children means the next alpha must be picked from the betas. Leadership vacuums are dangerous; the pack will fear this. You must convince them that you are Monty’s true mate. Legend suggests that the great werewolves of the past may have been an alpha and omega pair; you must make the pack believe this.”

“But what do I do?”

“You do as Monty requires.”

“I have my own life.”

“You are an omega; your life is with your alpha.”

“How do you know I’m this, this omega thing; I’m not a slave, groveling at my master’s feet.”

“You’re an omega. I can’t tell you why and how, but I can tell you that you know. You belong with Monty. Go to him now.”

“I have work.”

“And you were getting none done. I’ll tell the boss you fell ill at lunch. Go. Victor will take you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw Victor rise. He beckoned with a jerk of his chin.

“Go. It will work out.” Violet smiled. “I pick the best stocks. I can pick the best mates too.”

“This isn’t a joke.” Scott banged his fist on the table, rattling the plates.

“No, it’s not,” Violet said steadily, “but wallowing in anguish will not make it easier or better. Go.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Slings and Arrows IV**

 

Victor and his silent friend flanked Scott. They were both big men, not NBA big, but still big, arms as long as orangutans, legs suspiciously wide and sturdy, and more than Scott could take on. One of them could have slung Scott over his shoulder with no more trouble than if he were a child. Getting away from both of them would be impossible.

Scott gulped the air as they left the restaurant, glad for its coldness and dampness. His feet scuffed along the cracked and broken pavement. They were walking quickly, fast enough that Scott had to pay attention to his footfalls. He felt his breathing quicken, tugging the winter air into his lungs.

“In.” Victor pointed to a panel truck, the simple words “Organic Meat” painted on one side in royal blue lettering. Victor’s companion said nothing but climbed into the truck, swinging easily into the high cab. Scott hesitated and felt Victor’s hand on the small of his back, pushing and aiding him into the cab. The seat was vinyl, cracked and marred in several places and partially covered in a seat cover of an indescribable color.

“Where are we going?” Scott asked, wishing he’d run from these two men instead of climbing into this truck with the smell of diesel and wet fur. Oreo smelled this way when he was wet.

“To Monty, where you belong,” Victor said as he turned the key over in the ignition. The truck roared to life with a choking cloud of black smoke.

“Hey,” Scott protested as they lurched out onto the street with a grinding of gears. “I work. You can’t just cart me off. This is kidnapping.”

“Shut up!”

The other man talked, or maybe more correctly snarled. Scott felt the hair on the back of his neck rise up in alarm, and he snapped his teeth together in a suppressed half snarl.

“Brent,” Victor said in a soft voice that did nothing to lessen the menace in the tone.

“He’s an omega. He should be silent,” Brent snapped back.

“He’s Monty’s and Monty will have you for lunch.”

Brent growled and spat on the floor.

“Not inside.” Victor, without turning from the wheel, landed a sharp backhand on Brent’s cheek. “You weren’t raised in a barn.”

“Practically,” Brent snarled back, but at least he didn’t spit again.

Scott stared resolutely ahead. He wasn’t getting into these men’s argument. The truck sped across town and onto the freeway. The only sound in the cab was the throb of the engine and the rattle of the tailgate as they hit the potholes. Brent stared out his side window, a scowl on his face. Scott wished they’d turn on the radio, anything to pass the time. The truck had a radio; it looked like it was AM only, but anything would be better than this silence. 

“Where does Monty live?” Scott asked as they bumped off the freeway and onto a state route.

“This way,” Victor muttered in a tone that suggested further questions wouldn’t be welcome.

This way was toward small towns that Scott didn’t recognize. They slowed as they entered a series of quiet and dilapidated villages with half boarded up main streets and low grade franchises on the perimeter. Vast barren fields interspersed by the occasional long, gravel driveway lined the road. This time of year it wasn’t green, but brown and desolate. Scott smelled the hogs long before they passed the rows of low slung, white barns. They turned onto a country road, its sign pole a lonely steel post missing the green metal identification. The road was narrow, not two trucks wide. Black and white cattle stood in a mud lot pulling hay from giant steel racks. A scruffy dog shot in front of them and vanished into the roadside thicket.

Several miles farther, they turned onto a gravel drive marked only by a battered mailbox missing its door and flag. They bumped and lurched through several hair pin turns and stops to open sagging green farm gates. Sheep grazed on a hillside, not looking up as the truck rumbled by. The house stood banked against the hillside, a ramshackle farmhouse with a crumbling sidewalk and peeling paint on the shutters.

Monty stood in the yard, a bucket in either hand and black rubber boots that went nearly to his knees. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and behind wire mesh strung between posts of all sizes, a flock of chickens pecked at the mud and rocks. Cattle, Angus, Scott thought from the black coloring, were grazing in a large field behind a black barn with a silver roof starting to show rust spots and a silo that had long ago stopped serving its function with no roof and the top third gone on one side.

Paradise, Scott thought brutally. He wasn’t Farmer Bob. He needed a high speed internet connection and modern conveniences like a grocery store closer than thirty miles.

“We made it,” Victor said unnecessarily and turned off the engine.

Scott wanted to ask was “it” this paradise of mud and peeling paint, but neither of his escorts were friendly nor had a sense of humor. Monty was the safest of the three, and maybe as soon as he stopped slopping hogs or whatever he was doing, Scott could talk some sense into him and return to civilization.

Scott dropped from the cab, glad to be away from Brent despite the damp and the mud. He wasn’t wearing the right shoes for this.

“You made it,” Monty said in a booming cheerfulness that would have been more appropriate if Monty was landing in the airport in Jamaica and looking forward to a week of sun and surf. “I’ll take him inside.” Monty dropped a heavy arm around Scott’s shoulders, preventing any easy avenue for escape, as if there had been one anyway. 

They walked to the back of the house past overgrown flower beds where even Scott with his zero horticultural knowledge could recognize honeysuckle and English ivy. The screen door banged, one hinge missing several screws. Monty pulled his boots off in a room full of boots, towels, coveralls, and stained baseball caps. Scott kicked off his own shoes; even in the short walk, they’d already picked up mud.

“One of these pair of boots will fit you,” Monty grunted, waving his hand at the boots cluttered into the corner.

Scott was expected to stay long enough to need boots? Of course he was; they wouldn’t have bothered to drive him out to this paradise if he was only having a cup of tea. He needed more than tea. Whiskey might be appropriate in this situation: neat, burning, and hopefully mind numbing.

They stepped through the door into the main house and Scott stopped and stared. The floors were a wide pine covered in colorful throw rugs. The kitchen gleamed and smelled of stew and baking bread. Potted plants, some in bloom, lined the deep windowsills.

“The outside is intentional. It keeps people away.”

“No Jehovah Witnesses,” Scott said with a harsh laugh full of his earlier panic.

“They’re stubborn. It takes more than a little mud, but yes, that is the idea. Sit down.” Monty pointed to a kitchen chair. “I assume you ate?”

Scott nodded, watching Monty fill a glass at the sink and drink great gulps. He was handsome, the flannel shirt tight over his broad shoulders, his trim waist accentuated by the thick leather belt.

“Thirsty?”

Scott’s throat was dry, but it wasn’t from thirst. He couldn’t stay here. Monty couldn’t kidnap his bride. This wasn’t _The Arabian Nights_. Scott had rights, and he had responsibilities.

“Nice house and I’m sure it’s a nice farm.” Farms were nice in oversized coffee table books with beautiful pictures of white barns and grazing horses. Mud and rickety gates weren’t nice. “I can’t stay here.”

“Scott,” Monty said too gently, his hand reaching to touch Scott. 

“Get away.” Scott moved to the other side of the kitchen island.

“Are we going to start circling the island?” 

Scott looked down at the butcher block in front of him, the wood scarred by several deep knife cuts. 

“The knives are in the drawer if you feel you need a weapon.”

“God, no. I don’t know. I want to go home.”

Monty propped his hip against the counter, not moving any closer. His eyes were steady, half hidden behind his dark brows. “We can’t turn the clock back. You are a werewolf, and you are my omega.”

“What is the omega?” Scott shouted, frustration making his voice rise to undignified shouts. “Everybody keeps saying I’m the omega. I don’t want to be the omega. I want to go home.” He wished for the millionth time in his life that he hadn’t been born small and fine boned. He couldn’t just walk by Monty. Monty wasn’t a huge man, but he was big enough to grab Scott and hold him dangling helplessly by his collar. Plenty of other guys had enjoyed that sport.

“An omega is my mate.”

“It’s also the bottom of the barrel, the last letter in the Greek alphabet, everyone’s whipping boy. Mister high and mighty alpha, I plan to be no one’s toy to kick around.”

“Scott.” Monty pushed his dark hair back from his face, accentuating his sharp brows and cheek bones. “You are in my protection. No one will touch you.”

“Don’t you fucking get anything? I don’t want to be in your protection. I’m an independent human being.”

“Stop.” The growl wasn’t loud, but it made Scott freeze, the hair on the back of his neck erect. “Good pup.” Monty, in the short second that Scott had stood frozen from the growl, had crossed to him. Monty’s hand rested heavily on the back of Scott’s neck. 

“Get off me! What do I have to do to be left alone?” Scott cursed himself, his voice sounded high and frantic, not the calm and reasonable demand he wanted to project.

“No. Stand here and listen.”

“Fuck off!” Scott tried to fight. It was useless. Monty was three times as strong and three times as practiced. 

“Stop it now, pup.” Scott’s teeth were shaking in his head. Monty had him by the scruff of the neck and was effortlessly sloshing Scott’s brain back and forth in his skull. “No more.”

“Yes, sir.” Scott dropped his eyes and licked his lips.

“Good pup.” Monty gently ran his finger down Scott’s cheek as he put him back on his feet.

Scott jammed his hands in his pockets and slouched against the counter. There was no way to look casual when you had just been so comprehensively shown that you were weak and nothing. 

Monty’s fingers glided through Scott’s hair and he nuzzled Scott’s cheek, the rough traces of Monty’s beard scraping Scott’s smooth chin. “Don’t pout. It’s not becoming.”

“And being forced to be the wife of Farmer Bob in this hellhole is?”

“Your tongue will get you in trouble,” Monty said after the echo of Scott’s shouts had faded. “I can and will give you space and time when we’re alone to adjust. You cannot speak that way in front of the pack. This is hard for all of us.”

“How do I get out of here?” Scott sagged against the counter. He had to hang on to his rational side. His body was reacting to the smell of Monty: sweat, hay, and a pungent masculinity that was overwhelming his senses.

“Is that what you really want?”

With Monty this close, Scott couldn’t think. Pheromones, hormones, electrical charges across synapses were all muddying his reason. He shivered as Monty stroked his cheek.

“You’re body knows where you belong.”

“I’m not your pet,” Scott spat, jerking away from the caress.

“No, you’re my omega,” Monty said flatly, hooking his arm around Scott’s neck in what should be a friendly gesture, but with Monty had an overtone of control. “Don’t fight.”

“Accept being a doormat.”

“Don’t,” Monty growled.

Yield. Don’t yield. It would be easy to bury his head in Monty’s shirt, to enjoy the fingers caressing his hair, not to think of what happened next. He was an independent human with his own job, his own house, his own future. He didn’t belong here.

“Monty,” Scott started, trying to sound calm and rational. “I can’t just disappear into the country. I have responsibilities. People will look for me.”

“Violet will explain it to your boss.”

“Explain that I’ve deluded myself into believing that I’m a werewolf. That should go over well,” Scott said sarcastically.

“No, she will say that you have family responsibilities. She is persuasive and believable; all seers are.”

Monty’s hands were warm and searing. The dress shirt and the tie made them no less branding. Scott wanted them on his skin. He wanted to taste and to feel and not to think, not to be rational, not to do the right or safe thing for once. 

“Werewolves have strong and visceral feelings. Let yourself feel,” Monty whispered in Scott’s ear, his lips brushing against the thousands of nerve endings that lined the delicate skin.

“I have responsibilities,” Scott said, the protest sounding hollow to his own ears.

“A responsibility to yourself, to me, to the pack.” Monty brushed his fingers over Scott’s lips. “You’re mine, pup. You want it. I want it.”

Did he want it? It would be easy to surrender to Monty’s demands. If only there wasn’t the werewolf part, Scott might be able to cope with the submission. No, who was he kidding? He’d known he was a submissive since he was old enough to know that he leaned toward men. He’d tried to hide it. What man didn’t? He didn’t even have the physical presence to halt every wannabe dominant trying to have a go at him, but Monty didn’t feel like a wannabe dominant. He felt like the real thing. He made Scott’s blood sing and his head spin.

“Are you done with the shouting and the protests?” Monty asked.

Scott shrugged. “For now, I guess.”

“My good pup.”

Scott should protest the nickname. He might be submissive, but he wasn’t into doggy games. He needed to stop thinking about submission and games. He needed to think about getting home. His dog was at home.

“Oreo’s at home. He can’t stay alone.”

“I sent Gregory for him.”

“The house is locked.”

“I took the spare key from the shelf by the sink.”

“What?” Scott spun in Monty’s loosened grip and backed away. He wanted space between himself and this man. He’d taken his keys.

“Round two,” Monty said with a ghost of a smile.

“You took my keys? You had no right.” Every muscle in Scott’s body was vibrating. If only he were big enough to punch Monty out. Scott would lose; Monty had already demonstrated how easy it was to control the little pipsqueak.

“As a human, I had no right,” Monty said in a far too agreeable voice. “I believe humans have a law against stalking and theft.”

“You...you admit it’s wrong, and you did it anyway.”  Scott couldn’t even verbally spar with Monty. He sounded like a nerd, a wimp, a useless kid.

“Yep.” Monty nodded. “It’s wrong for humans; they have different rules, but we are not human.”

“Shift for me!” Scout shouted. “I don’t believe it. I was drugged. I was hallucinating.”

“And you hallucinated the restaurant? I’ve been there; it’s hardly an ordinary family restaurant.”

“People have odd dining habits. I’m not responsible for their tastes.”

“Odd?” Monty questioned. “Didn’t it seem more than odd to you? Ethnic restaurants with unpronounceable foods are odd.”

“Thousands think they’ve see U.F.O.s. People embrace the illogical,” Scott said.

“You embrace the illogical by refusing to accept what you saw and felt. You are a werewolf.”

“Then why can’t I shift?” Scott had tried this morning. He’d stupidly stood in the shower, the water dripping into his eyes, and tried to change. Nothing. It wasn’t fucking possible. This was an elaborate hoax. But why him? Scott clenched his fists; he wasn’t going to fall apart any further. He wasn’t going to admit how hard he’d tried. 

“Did you try?” Monty asked gently.

Scott nodded, worrying his lower lip with his teeth.

“You’re young and inexperienced. It will take time to control the shift.”

“It’s bullshit! It can’t be done.”

“Sit.” Monty hooked his foot around the kitchen chair and pulled it out. 

“Oh, good, I can play the doggy again.”

Monty smiled and shook his head, his black hair brushing his shoulders in a way that made Scott swallow and think of things he was desperately trying to push to the back of his mind. It didn’t matter that Monty was drop dead gorgeous, that he sent dominant signals that made Scott quake in his socks, he insisted that he was a shifter. The gorgeous guys never looked at Scott, and when one finally glanced in his direction, he was psychotic.

“Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf might be more appropriate.” Monty slid his belt through the loops and coiled it on the counter. With deft hands, he undid the top three buttons of his green watch plaid flannel shirt and lifted it over his head, followed by a white T-shirt. He toed off his socks and unselfconsciously dropped his jeans and his briefs. 

Scott knew his eyes were bugging out of his head. The muscles rippled over Monty’s shoulders, and he seemed completely relaxed with his body exposed to the fully dressed Scott. 

“Wolves have fur.”

Scott stared. It happened so fast. He’d been staring at a man, a great looking man, and now... Scott drew back in his chair—the giant teeth, the eerie yellow eyes. Fear, the primordial fear of ancient man. Wolves were the enemy. They stole babies; they ate sheep. Scott’s breath came in short fast gulps.

Monty was in front of him again, reaching for his briefs and jeans. “Did that help?”

Scott gulped. Monty had been so huge. He hadn’t fit on the floor between the table and the stove. Scott had only seen wolves in pictures and maybe at the zoo. No, he’d been with Monty that night, but that was all a blur. Scott couldn’t remember—the cold, the moon.

Monty stroked the back of his hand down Scott’s face. “It’ll be awhile before you’ll shift that easily. I’ll help. The literature suggests that the omega only shifts when the alpha is present.” Monty pushed his black hair back from his face. “It’s complicated; little is known.”

“This really happens,” Scott mumbled. Monty had changed before his eyes.

“You are not having serial hallucinations.” Monty’s grasped Scott’s wrist, his hand firm, the fingers roughened from outdoor work and all very real.

“Shit!” The simple expletive was woefully inadequate, but Scott was a computer guy. He didn’t have similes and metaphors filed away neatly in his brain, and he didn’t have the vocabulary for what he’d seen. It had been real. No one was that good of magician. They weren’t at the movies with the three dimensional animation and computer generated graphics. Scott understood that. He didn’t understand why when Monty touched him that he licked his lips, swallowed, and only with massive willpower suppressed a whimper. He wanted to rub against that man, that creature. He wanted to bare his neck and show his belly.

“Good pup. I know it’s overwhelming.” Monty’s hand rubbed along Scott’s ear, the way Scott had rubbed Oreo’s ears thousands of times. Scott leaned into the caress. He couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t stop the whimper from his lips.

“What am I doing?” Scott pulled away, jerking his head away from that wonderful touch.

“Letting your mate show affection,” Monty said, still standing far too close for ordinary conversation. Scott couldn’t escape his scent. It filled his lungs and curled into his brain. Scott’s nostrils flared, trying to take in more.

“You’re not my mate. I hardly know you,” Scott tried to snap, but he felt as if he were in a drunken stupor. His tongue was too big for his mouth. He could hardly form the words.

“Damn! You’re shifting.” 

Monty pulled Scott up from the table. He stripped the tie from Scott’s throat and jerked Scott’s shirt over his head, the buttons flying across the room like small missiles. Scott flailed and howled; his pants were in all the wrong places. The room was a funny color, not dimmer, more like a television with bad color control, too many shades of gray for which he didn’t have a name. He swayed on the slick floor, his nails tearing grooves into the soft wood as he tried to find a purchase.

“Easy. Can you shift back for me?”

That was man. Man had fire and guns and dogs. Scott snarled and scrambled backward, his tail bumping the table legs. No, the smell wasn’t right. The man smelled like wolf, but the picture was wrong--jeans and bare feet with long toes. He should have dark fur and strong paws. This man wasn’t man at all. Scott took another sniff as he growled a warning to the jeaned legs. This was his mate.

His mate’s voice was gentle and coaxing, the words unimportant. Scott crawled forward, his belly pressed to the floor. He needed to touch. Scott drew a long breath through his nostrils as he lay whimpering in the shelter of the table. He could smell wolf and sheep and some sort of human cleaning product that stung the lining of his nostrils.

“Good pup.” The voice was for Scott. Monty was on his knees, his arms wide, but not reaching. “Come on, pup.”

Scott slid forward, wanting to touch. The hand grazed his forehead and rubbed his ears. Scott whimpered and turned belly up, warm urine splashing between his legs.

“I’m not angry” Monty’s voice was gentle. He stroked the fur on Scott’s chest. Scott whimpered and licked the hand. “Good pup. Can you shift back for me? Think about two legs, reading the paper, driving your car, playing those games on your computer. Think about your mother and holiday meals with your family sitting around the overburdened table.”

Scott yipped and nuzzled the hand. His vision grayed and then faded to a crazy swirl of lines and dots. He was cold. His teeth chattered in his head.

“Very good.”

Monty’s arms were around Scott. The stiff jeans rubbed against Scott’s bare skin. He was naked with a fully clothed man whom he barely knew.

“You shifted. How do you feel?”

Shifted? Scott was dizzy. He might throw up. He clutched his stomach, the room spinning in front of him, the colors so bright that they scorched his eyeballs.

Scott was hoisted up and pushed toward the sink. He clutched its shiny edges, his stomach roiling. 

“Being sick is common. Let go. It’s OK.” Monty was rubbing Scott’s back, his hand heavy and reassuring.

“Water,” Scott croaked. He swallowed hard, the bile revolting in his throat. At least his stomach no longer felt as if it were exiting in that direction.

Monty handed Scott a glass of water. Scott clutched at the glass, his fingers feeling awkward; they’d been pads only a few minutes ago. The water cooled Scott’s throat.

“Better? It’ll get easier.”

“This is awful.”

“I know,” Monty said, stroking Scott’s short hair.

“Why me? I can’t do this.” Scott clung to the sink. He knew hot, undignified tears were dripping down his face, but he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted out. He wanted to go back a week where this didn’t exist.

“Shh.” Monty kissed the side of Scott’s face, seemingly not disgusted by the shameful crying. “My pup. I’ve got you.” Scott was enveloped in those strong arms and plastered against Monty’s chest. 

Scott didn’t know how long he stood there, but at least the room had stopped spinning, and he could stand without shaking. He was buried in Monty’s chest. Every sense covered by the essence of Monty. 

“Oh, God.” 

“Praying probably won’t help much,” Monty said with a smile in his voice. “We’ve always been on the wrong side of that divide.”

“Can I have my clothes?”

Monty unwrapped his arms and pointed to the scattered pieces of cloth. “What’s left of them.”

Blushing furiously, Scott scrambled for his shirt and pants. He hadn’t realized his chest could turn crimson. Even his cock, had a hideous blush, and entirely inappropriately was stirring between his legs. No, this wasn't the time. Get dressed. Analyze the data. Scott was good with data; he liked numbers and projections.

His pants weren’t too bad, only the top button missing. His boxers would have to be consigned to the rag pile, and Scott’s cock bumped uncomfortable against the suddenly scratchy khaki. His shirt was missing half its buttons and hung open, making Scott feel like a perverted image of a college kid at a leather bar, not a fully dressed professional.

“Gregory is bringing clothes also. You’ll be needing them.”

Scott flushed darker, his skin burning from the redness. Maybe the ground could just open up and swallow him. He turned into a wolf; swallowing ground couldn’t be that difficult. Stop it! He had to live with this! Oh, God, he had to live with this.

“Deep breath. You’re getting shaky again.”

Scott clutched at Monty’s hand and shut his eyes. “It really happened?”

“Yes.” Monty’s voice rumbled deep in his chest. “You are a werewolf.” If only Monty’s tone wasn’t so practical and real, if only Scott had been drinking, if only he was suffering some rare and unheard of fever from the darkest reaches of Africa, he could convince himself this was all an illusion. It wasn’t. He turned into a creature with sharp teeth and a bushy tail. He was hanging onto a guy who turned into an even bigger creature with yellow eyes and teeth that had gleamed impressively in the small confines of the kitchen.

“Shit. I’m sober.”

“You are.” Monty kissed the side of Scott’s face. 

“God! What do I do now?”

“You stay. We learn to control your shift. You become my mate, my omega, my most valuable asset in the pack, my lover.”

“Simple,” Scott snorted and grabbed harder at Monty as his body recoiled at the sudden motion. 

“Calm,” Monty said with an authority that probably would have been frightening in any other situation, but here with the world spinning around Scott’s ears it was reassuring. 

“I’m trying for calm. This isn’t a calming situation. I’m a freak who only belongs in a science fiction movie right with the killer tomatoes.”

“Stop it,” Monty growled. “You’re my mate; you don’t insult yourself.”

“No, your henchmen did it for me,” Scott spat and immediately regretted that he hadn’t whispered. Shit! His stomach still wasn’t behaving.

“Sink?” Monty asked, way too calm.

“No,” Scott said grimly, willing the nausea to pass.

“What did Victor and Brent do?” Monty rubbed Scott’s neck, which felt way too good.

“Victor looked at me like I was a bug on the floor and Brent practically spat on me.” Why was Scott telling Monty these things? He could deal with rude people on his own.

“Victor looks at me like I’m a worm, so you’re one step up, but I will speak to Brent. No one spits on you.”

“It wasn’t on me; it hit the floor of the truck.”

“No manners,” Monty growled. “He’s strong as an ox, but sometimes... I’ll deal with him.”

Monty said it in a manner that was a hell of a lot more ominous than Scott’s boss on his worst day. Scott peeked at Monty’s face. His teeth were clenched, and his eyes were hard. This was not someone that one crossed if survival was high on the priority list. 

“He knows his place. I’ll just remind him,” Monty said in a softer tone.

“Victor slapped him.”

“I’m sure Brent deserved it. Victor is very loyal. He was a beta in my grandfather’s pack and now in mine. He’ll protect me and what is mine with his life.”

“He’s not friendly.”

“Most betas aren’t. Their job is to defend the pack.”

“And what’s my job?” Scott asked. To get pushed around by everyone. He was the bottom of the pack—bottom as in endless pit. 

“You’re my mate,” Monty said.

“I’m the omega,” Scott said, his frustration ringing in his ears.

“That isn’t a bad thing.” Monty kissed Scott’s forehead in a gesture that was too possessive for comfort. “An omega is a precious gift. I will cherish you, and my pack will cherish you. You are my life blood. The bond will be unbreakable.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Slings and Arrows**

**Chapter 5**

 

Scott stared at Monty. God, the man could be gorgeous; no, he was gorgeous. Monty’s eyes trapped Scott in a hypnotic gaze. Scott wanted this man. He was an idiot; he wanted this man who was going to own his soul.

“Don’t panic.” Monty’s voice was warm, a balm to Scott’s shaking nerves. 

“Right, don’t panic,” Scott said with an attempt at self-deprecating humor. “I turn into a flipping wild animal, and I’m not supposed to panic. I practically up chuck in a stranger’s sink. Ah, yes, still no need for panic. I’m the whipping boy of a group of those same said wild animals. Me panic—never. It’s a walk in the park.”

“Stop.” Monty wrapped his arm around Scott’s waist and pulled him close. 

“I’m just supposed to stop. I’ve landed in the middle of a fucking computer game, but the only problem is that it’s real. I can’t power down or pull the plug. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to obey me,” Monty said in a steady voice. “You’re my omega.”

“That’s what I keep being told.” Scotts voice was spiraling higher in frustration. He was dangerously close to tears. Great, he could be nauseated and tearful. Those were great manly qualities. “So I follow you around like a good little boy and all will be well. Do Brent and Victor get to fuck me too? It that part of a beta’s rights?”

The snarl from Monty’s lips was frightening. Scott lowered his eyes and resisted a strange urge to flatten his ears. His ears weren’t mobile. Of course as a wolf, they would be. If Scott had ever watched the National Geographic Channel, he’d probably know something about wolf behavior. He wasn’t a wolf; he didn’t care about wolf behavior.

“No one touches you but me. You are my mate.” Monty stepped closer, pushing Scott back against the counter. His lips touched Scott, at first gentle then powerful and claiming. Scott stood panting as Monty eased back, a fierce look on his handsome face. “Mine.” 

Monty’s. It should be overwhelmingly frightening. If Scott though about it rationally, it was overwhelmingly frightening. He was a pawn in a game that he didn’t understand, but, God, it felt good. Scott could still taste Monty’s lips on his. Scott rubbed his hand over his face. No, he wasn’t falling into some crazed sexual haze. He had to keep his wits about them, no matter how addled they currently felt.

“What is the omega?” Scott had to ask the question. It didn’t matter how fucking handsome and breathtaking Monty was in his faded flannel shirt and worn jeans that did little to hide the well defined and impressive package; Scott wasn’t the hero in a romance film or worse a porn flick. There was more to life than the physical sensations that seemed to be overwhelming him.

It was Monty’s turn to run his hand over his face and brush the shiny, black strands of hair from his face. “I know little of this role,” Monty said slowly. “It’s surrounded by myth and lost in the legends of time”

“This is my fucking life, not some fucking game,” Scott shouted, jerking away from Monty and immediately regretting the flare of spots and the curl of nausea that churned his guts. “You’re not some game master.” Scott gripped the counter, trying to swallow the waves of bile that kept threatening to launch from his mouth. “Lost in the mist of time doesn’t do shit for me.”

“You and Brent have an equally delightful vocabulary. I’m surprised you didn’t hit it off.”

“How can you be joking?”

“Scott,” Monty said, gripping Scott’s chin in a calloused hand. “I have no more control of this than you. I am trapped in the tides of destiny and tradition. As alpha I must take you as my mate. Each touch of your skin, every whimper and shout from you, drives my heart faster. I can taste you in my mouth; I can feel you on my hands; I can hear you in my ears. You are my mate. I can no more change this than you can. You aren’t my serf or my slave; you are my other half. Come.”

Monty’s grip around Scott’s wrist was too strong to break. Scott followed in Monty’s wake, nearly running to keep up with his long strides. Monty opened a heavy, wood paneled door and dragged Scott into a study, a library, or maybe more correctly a lair. Book shelves rose high to the ceiling, the volumes old and smelling of leather and dust and time. A small fire crackled behind a heavy screen, real, not a gas log. A sheepskin rug filled the floor space in front of the hearth looking both inviting and somehow primitive or even revolting at the same time. A large desk battered by time and heavy use took the remaining space. It wasn’t modern. There were no blinking monitors or scattered smart phones and iPods on the table. 

The room was dark without outside windows. The only light was the fire and the narrow band from the open door. Scott opened a desk drawer and drew out a box of kitchen matches. He struck the match, the flame brilliant in the still air, the acrid smell of smoke and phosphorous assaulting Scott’s nose. Monty lit the wick on an antique light, watching the flame for a moment before replacing the shade.

“Don’t you have electricity?” Scott asked.

“Tradition. The house is wired, but this room holds our memories. Electricity is not a part of our heritage. We must be more aware of the earth than those out there. We are tied to the world in very different ways than those who cannot shift.”

Great. More history mumbo jumbo, Scott thought to himself. 

Monty turned to the shelves. His finger traced the volumes until he pulled out two. “These are the records of the omega.” He flipped to a page, marked with a gold ribbon. “Here.” Monty tapped the page.

Scott peered down at the book. It was a handwritten, tiny cursive with elaborate loops filled the page from margin to margin. Scott read print; he’d been taught to write cursive in elementary school, but it was an art he soon forgot, and reading this was nearly impossible. The letters all looked the same, and the words refused to become more than loops and curves of elegant script.

“What does it say?” Scott asked in frustration.

“As I understand it, this page speaks of Richard and James. ‘The moon rose, the silver light streaking across the top of the trees. The water gurgled over the rocks, a twig cracked, and high above the screech owl declared its presence in the ancient hickory tree. James stood in the small clearing, the moons rays reflecting off his silver coat. He turned his head toward his constant companion. Beside him stalked a wolf, his coat erect down his spine, a low growl rumbling in his throat. He was always with James as wolf or as man. He was the shield to James’s spear,”

“And what does this tell me?” Scott asked. He wanted a straight answer, not riddles and legends and veiled warnings.

“Little if this is your only information. I have combed our ancient recourses. The references are all clouded, but the omega is not a doormat as you referred to it. He is a co-warrior. He shares mastery of the pack. He is submissive to the alpha alone. It is to me that you must yield. The pack is ours, not mine.”

“I don’t have machinations of greatness.”

“You are impossible, pup.” Monty cuffed the back of Scott’s head. First you complain of being a doormat and now you complain of having power.”

Scott let his eyes roam around the room. It was impossible to stare into Monty’s dark and intense gaze without it affecting him. He wanted to see approval in those dark eyes; Scott wanted to see that slight smile twitch at the corner of Monty’s lips. Scott could smell Monty, the scent assaulting his thought and his reason. He wanted to be closer, to breathe nothing but Monty. No. He stepped back and focused his eyes above Monty’s shoulder.

“Let me paraphrase,” Scott said, trying for a tone of abstract professionalism which in the circumstances was ridiculous. “Without my say or my consent, I am your mate, and I am your submissive, however by the taking of your name I am protected from the basest urges of your pack. I sure as hell can’t protect myself. I think your delightful Brent and Victor have proved that,” Scott continued, losing any pretense of rational professionalism. “You can pick me up like a troublesome fly. Would you like me kneeling and lavishing you with sirs and slobber on your boots?”

“Pup,” Monty said in a soft reassuring tone.

“Don’t start.” Scott waved his hand around in a useless dismissive gesture. “Just order me. I’m the omega to crawl on the floor and do your fucking bidding. I don’t need it fucking sugar coated.”

“Enough,” Monty snarled.

Scott jerked back from the tone and the eyes. Monty’s eyes were like obsidian discs, glittering in a way that Scott had previously thought possible only in the bad novels that his mother used to keep hidden behind the cook books.

“Yes, I’m a dominant, or a fucking dominant as you might call it, and you’re my fucking submissive.” Monty growled again and caught Scott’s collar, tightening the cloth around his neck. “I can thrash it into you. Is that what you need, pup?” Monty shook Scott hard at each word. 

Pulling away was impossible with his wind half cut off. Answering was equally impossible. Scott grabbed for Monty’s wrist. “Please,” he choked out. “You’re hurting me.”

“Yes, I am.” Monty practically threw Scott against the wall. “Hands on your head. Nose against the corner.”

“No.” Scott spun around. “I’m not standing in the corner.” He grabbed a book from the shelf and hurled it at Monty. Scott reached for a second missile, but the crash of a hand against his dress trousers sent all brain processes rearward.

“Hands on your head, pup, or I do that again.”

Scott jerked his hands up, interlacing his fingers in a clumsy imitation of what he’d seen on the cop shows. He wasn’t going to risk another one of those spanks. Fire had radiated off the blow. 

“So is this the type of submission you want?” Monty’s voice was a whisper in Scott’s ear: cool and menacing, and insanely causing a stir in Scott’s groin. “I can leave hot handprints on your ass. I can have you on your knees. I can make you the submissive fuck toy you’re so afraid of, or we can play it my way. I am your alpha. I am the pack’s alpha. My word is law, but that doesn’t mean you have no say. It means you advise and guide, but you must adhere to the final decision with exacting obedience. You do not challenge me alone or with the pack.” Monty ran his hand down Scott’s back, firmly kneading the ass he’d just swatted. “My omega is submissive to me, but it’s about a partnership, a generous ceding of your power to me to make us both stronger, not me brutally taking it. I can take it, have no doubt.” Monty stepped back, his hand resting on Scott’s neck. “So what will it be?”

Coffee, tea, or milk? Scott thought inanely. He couldn’t decide in two seconds. It was a choice he shouldn’t have to make. Obey willingly or obey because Monty would knock the shit out of him. This was the twenty-first century. He was a man. He wasn’t consigned to some forced obedience, cheerful or not.

“Scott.” Monty gently turned Scott and ran his thumb down Scott’s cheek. “I want to love you, not hurt you. Both of us have few choices here.”

Scott was fucking crying. He couldn’t stop it. Tears were running down his cheeks, and his hands were still anchored on his head.

“Come here.” Monty’s arms were strong, the embrace unwavering. Scott buried himself in Monty’s chest. His tears soaked Monty’s shirt. “Shh. Put your hands down, sweetheart.” Monty’s fingers weaved between Scott’s, forcing the hands apart and down. “I’ve got you. Shh.”

Scott tried to make himself stop crying, but it seemed beyond any easy solution. He couldn’t just reboot his programming or force quit the errant application. 

“I’m an emotional disaster. Sorry,” Scott finally mumbled.

“The shifting leaves you vulnerable.” Monty fingered Scott’s short hair and kissed his forehead.

“Will I do this from now on?” Scott said, leaning into Monty’s strength, even as his mind was hinting he should pull away.

“It should lessen.”

“But not totally go away.” Scott pulled back from Monty. “I didn’t want this.”

Monty looped his arm over Scott’s shoulders and pulled him close again. “We don’t always get what we want.”

“Fuck you! You don’t even like me. I’m just some burden you have to endure—all for the good of the pack. Ah!” The swat was hard; It shot Scott up onto his toes and drove his voice several octaves higher.

“We will keep doing this until you get it right.”

“How can you be so fucking calm?”

“I’ve know my destiny, and—” Monty wrapped a big hand around the back of Scott’s head and brought their lips close. The kiss was scorching and claiming, and left Scott mind whirling in a tornado of useless thought. “I want you for mine. It doesn’t matter that the choice wasn’t mine. I was never fated to have that choice. What matters is that I want you. Neither part of me, the wolf or the man, can be without your.”

Maybe the conversation would have gone further and the world would have become clearer, but they both heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

“That’s Gregory. He’ll have your stuff,” Monty said.

“I look terrible.” Scott wiped his eyes with his sleeve. They had to be bloodshot and swollen. It wouldn’t’ take the investigative powers of Sherlock Holmes to know that he’d been crying. 

“You’re beautiful.”

“I’m red-eyed and tear stained. I look like a hormonal teenage girl.”

“Gregory won’t notice.”

“How could he not?”

“I think the term for it once was airhead.”

“Hey, anyone home?”

“Coming,” Monty called back. “You coming,” Monty asked Scott, “or am I dragging you? I can do that too.”

“Coming,” Scott said with a final swipe at his face. He didn’t doubt that Monty would drag him out to see whomever was at the door, tear stains be damned. 

Monty opened the study door, and a small bundle of black and white fur yipped and jumped and desperately tried to climb Scott’s pants leg. 

“Oreo.” Scott picked up the little dog and cuddled him close to his face. Oreo yapped and licked at Scott’s face, his pink tongue just making contact with Scott’s chin.

“Scott, meet Gregory,” Monty said over the frantic yipping. 

Gregory was thin and pale with his dark hair cut at a stylish angle that half hid his light brown eyes. He held out his hand, but didn’t lift his eyes to meet Monty’s. His handshake was quick as if he wanted to make as little contact as possible.

“Hi,” Gregory mumbled, pulling his hand away and shoving it into his pocket, his shoulders slumped and his body angled away from both Monty and Scott.

“Stand up and make eye contact,” Monty said, his hand grazing Gregory’s shoulder in a gesture of support or maybe a slight threat.

Gregory made a noise between a whine and the universal noise of teenagers and scuffed his socked foot on the hardwood floor.

“I expect you to greet my mate properly,” Monty said in a low growl.

“Yes, sir,” Gregory mumbled with a deeper slump to his shoulders. “Scott, I’m pleased to meet you.” Gregory looked miserable, his face mostly hidden by the fringe of hair, but a scorching pink shown along his cheekbones.

Scott nodded, feeling almost as awkward as Gregory. Scott hadn’t cared that Gregory hadn’t greeted him with whatever Monty defined as proper politeness. Scott wasn’t too far from his own teenage years to remember how it felt to be introduced to people that were as interesting as the trash blowing on the road and who tried to make awkward conversation about college or future careers.

“I see that I have two social butterflies,” Monty said, swiping a heavy hand over both Scott’s and Gregory’s head in an identical light blow. “Gregory is the youngest member of the pack and general errand boy.”

“I am not,” Gregory said hotly.

“You are,” Monty replied, unperturbed by Gregory’s outburst. Monty ruffled Gregory’s dark hair. “Are you staying tonight? You’re father is out of town?”

“I can?” Gregory looked up at Monty a fleeting expression bordering on adoration or hero worship raced across his face before being replaced by teenage angst.

“I would not have asked if I wouldn’t allow it.”

“But--”

“I have a mate. That doesn’t lessen my responsibility to the rest of the pack. I am still the pack’s alpha, and Scott will make me stronger in that role, not weaker.”

“Will you run with me tonight?” Gregory asked softly.

“Not tonight.”

“You won’t let me go alone.”

“No, I won’t.” Monty’s tone had lost its friendliness; this must have been a long standing argument. “Ask Victor or Brent.”

The expression on Gregory’s face would have been comical if it hadn’t been a mirror to Scott’s own feelings. Scott felt young, stupid, and inadequate seeing his own insecurities reflected on a teenage face. His teenage years weren’t something he was interested in reliving; the first time around had been bad enough. He didn’t need the instant replay.

“You take one of them with you, or you don’t shift.” Monty’s voice and expression were hard. This was a man who expected obedience with no argument. Scott had heard it described as willing submission; the submissive was to gracefully yield to the dominant’s request. Scott had imagined it, but he’d never seen it beyond the lip service of people playing at hokey games, and from the set of Gregory’s jaw he wasn’t going to see it today.

“Fine,” Gregory huffed. “I’ll follow my alpha’s idiotic rules.”

Monty moved like lightening; maybe it was the wolf side that allowed him to move so fast. He grabbed Gregory’s collar, lifted him off the floor, and landed several hard slaps in a rapid tattoo on Gregory’s thigh. He tossed Gregory back to the floor. The teenager scrambled to keep his feet and wiped a hand across his face with an angry swipe.

“Are you done?” Monty asked, his body still tense from the quick struggle.

Gregory nodded, his eyes focused on his own socked feet.

“What’s with the resentment?” Monty asked, unbending slightly. “You know better than to fight me.”

“Scott’s here,” Gregory mumbled.

“Yes,” Monty prompted. He moved his hand to rest on Gregory’s shoulder.

“He’s the omega.”

“And what does that mean?” Monty asked. His eyes had shifted to an almost black as he stared at Gregory.

“Nothing,” Gregory mumbled.

The sound of the slap ricocheted off the walls. Gregory jumped and reached back to protect his exposed ass. “Please. Don’t.” He blinked back a sheen of tears.

Scott moved to slide away. This wasn’t his business; he shouldn’t be a spectator to whatever the hell was going on.

“Don’t move.” Monty’s voice ripped through Scott’s body and froze his legs without his brain even processing the order. “You are a member of this pack. Gregory is as answerable to you as he is to me. He seems to be severely misinformed as to the role of the omega.” Monty focussed his attention back toward the hapless Gregory who was struggling not to fidget under Monty’s harsh gaze. “Gregory, what is the role of the omega? What have you been told?”

“Nothing,” Gregory repeated, his slouch deeper, his hands rubbing up and down his slightly grubby jeans.

“What has your father told you?” Monty asked, cupping the back of Gregory’s neck with a large hand and giving him a slight shake.

“He’s the bottom of the pecking order.” Gregory paused and bit his lip. “You fuck him.”

Monty smiled gently and ruffled Gregory’s hair. “It’s not as horrific as you imagine, and our behavior in the bedroom is hardly your business. The other is not as simple. Alone, Scott would be the bottom of the pack, but he is my chosen mate. My status reflects on his rank. He holds a more important position than the gammas. You will defer to him.”

Gregory’s lip trembled, and his brown eyes looked impossibly wide. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. “I meant no offense.”

“You’re a good kid.” Monty stroked his hand down Gregory’s back. “Now be good tonight and ask Victor or Brent to take you out for a run. I can feel the energy on you. You need to shift.”

“I like going with you better,” Gregory said shyly.

“I know you do, but you must learn to accept and be comfortable with all your pack mates.”

“They snarl at me.”

“And they have every right to snarl at you. You are a very young and sometimes impertinent gamma. Now go on. Scott and I need some time alone.”

Scott watched Gregory nod and lean into Monty’s touch before walking from the room. Scott bit his own lip and dropped his eyes as Monty’s dark eyes rested on his face. Monty had been decent to the kid, but he hadn’t been easy or compromising, and somehow he hadn’t been quite human. He’d physically touched the boy, and it had been accepted. Gregory didn’t look afraid of Monty, well, maybe a little, but he also seem to genuinely like Monty. He’d wanted to go running through the countryside with Monty or whatever werewolves did.

“Gregory’s young, but he must learn that I won’t always make allowances for his behavior,” Monty said, his eyes still studying Scott. “I won’t hurt him. A good alpha postures and displays, so true violence will not be needed. Do you understand?”

Scott nodded, but he wasn’t sure he understood, but damn it was easier to agree with those dark eyes boring into him than to make trouble. Monty wasn’t flamboyant; he didn’t carry a whip or wear leather chaps, but he reeked of dominance. Scott shuddered inwardly. This frightened him, but paradoxically it excited him in ways he didn’t understand. He knew he was a sexual submissive, but he’d never felt the magnetic pull that Monty seemed to have over him. He’d tried a few times, but it had always seemed so damn phony that he’d about given it up. People in clubs strutting around in strange outfits just didn’t excite him. Saran wrap belonged in the kitchen, not as a sex aid, and licking boots among other things was just gross.

Monty’s lip turned up in a slight smile. It was a guarded smile and did little to make Scotthappier or more relaxed. Monty knew his power, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

“Come here, pup.” Monty pointed to the space on the floor between his feet.

Scott thought about resisting. He should walk away; he would walk away if he hadn’t shifted. He ran his hand through his short hair in an unconscious gesture of stress. His mind might fight this, but his body told him he should surrender. He was Monty’s; he belonged to Monty.

Scott’s feet moved slowly; the few feet turned into a chasm a mile wide. He stood in front of Monty, unable to look the taller man in the eye. Scott gritted his teeth and tried to stop the shaking that he knew must be visible. It wasn’t exactly fear, but he couldn’t put a name on it. Fear was definitely a component, but perversely there was some sort of excitement and longing.

“Good.” Monty stroked his finger down Scott’s cheek. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. You are my mate. I protect what is mine.”

_Protect. Mine._ Scott wasn’t a possession; he was an autonomous human being. He should protest. He should fight, but his feet stayed stubbornly in place, and he clasped his hands behind him in a classic submissive pose.

Monty placed a finger under Scott’s chin and forced his eyes up. “Have no doubt you will obey me, but obedience is for your protection, not a desire to quash your free will. I don’t want a mindless drone. I want a partner, a man and a wolf who will stand beside me with pride.”

The kiss was soft, sensual and left Scott breathless. He feared the power. He feared the force that made him drop his eyes to this man, to this werewolf, but his body soared at every touch. He wanted to surrender, to curl up with Monty’s arms tightly around him, to sit at this man’s feet like a faithful pet.

“Give it to me,” Monty whispered, his hot breath against Scott’s ear. “You know where you belong.”

“I can’t.” Scott gulped air, trying to clear his head. He couldn’t fall under this creature’s spell. 

“Not yet,” Monty said gently, “but it will happen.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Slings and Arrows**

**Chapter 6**

 

Monty pulled his jacket tighter around his neck. Even in the relative warmth of the barn with the steam rising in the air from each breath of the crowded heifers, it was cold. He’d broken the skim of ice in the troughs and managed to get more than his fair share on his jeans and slopping over his rubber boots. The blasted water was frigid. He hurried across the muddy drive past the steaming pile of manure to the second barn.

Monty’s father was leaning against the faded red siding, seemingly oblivious to the wind, his head bare and his thick gray hair mussed by the sharp wind. This had been his farm until he and mother had moved to the cottage at the far end of the property. Monty’s father still drove the tractor in fine weather, but he now spent more time at the local feed store jawing with the two elderly brothers, who owned it, as they poured over their yellowing ledgers. His father was more comfortable in human society than Monty would ever be. Maybe this was a function of not being an alpha, or maybe this was the reality of having a fully human wife.

“I assume you’re here to ask about Scott,” Monty said, not pausing as he hurried across to the other barn.

“He’s not in your room.”

So much for pleasantries. Monty’s father might mix with human society, but he’d never been anything but blunt and demanding with his son. It hadn’t been all bad. His father had never neglected or ignored him, and he now served as a loyal beta, but undoubtedly having a son who led the pack was both a source of pride and of biting jealously. Skipping a generation between alphas was a common custom when a werewolf child was sired young and when the alpha continued to be vigorous into his older years, but it was still difficult for the skipped generation.

Gibson Wallace would have been a good alpha. Even now with his gray hair and deep furrows around his eyes and lining his forehead, he projected strength and unwavering commitment. He was a man and a wolf to be respected and with whom only the foolhardy trifled. 

“You do not deny it?”

“No.” Monty stopped, his boots crunching on the loose gravel that was doing nothing to reduce the encroaching mud. 

“You must take him.” The brown eyes that stared at Monty could easily match Monty’s own for intensity. 

“I’m busy. We can talk about this later.”

“No.” Monty’s father reached out and caught Monty’s jacket. If any other member of the pack had touched him this way, it would have meant a true fight, but this was his father. Monty snuffed his instinct to snarl and turned rigidly toward his father, not hiding the displeasure on his face. 

“My mate is my business.”

“It is the pack’s business. As lead beta it is my responsibility to question if the alpha is not serving the pack in the pack’s best interest.”

“Scott is in the pack’s best interest,” Monty snapped, drawing himself up to his full height and letting a low growl rumble in his throat.

“Son, you do not intimidate me. The rest of the pack may scatter when you get snarly, but I do not. I will have answers.”

“I take it you and Brent have been conspiring.”

“We do not conspire. Brent is concerned about the welfare of the pack as is Victor. Brent may be my friend, but he is your beta, and he is loyal to you, and I know you do not question Victor’s loyalty. He has also approached me.”

Monty shook his dark hair back and held his father’s gaze. They clashed, but they were also loyal to each other. “Scott’s not ready.”

“Make him ready.”

“I will not rape him.”

“Your sentiment is noble, but I cannot mute the disquiet forever. You must appear as a mated pair at the next gathering. It is difficult enough that you have a male mate.” Monty’s father said the words in a neutral tone, but Monty knew what it had cost his father to admit that Monty was different as he politely put it. It was Monty’s grandfather who had insisted the alpha status pass to Monty despite his unusual proclivities, citing the ancient examples.

“I’m aware of the requirement,” Monty said softly. “We will appear as a mated pair.”

“Has he shifted?”

“The first day.” Monty watched his father’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “I see Brent has been spying. He wouldn’t have known; it happened inside. Scott shifts if I have an aura of the shift. The timing isn’t exact, but I believe he needs my presence.”

“He doesn’t shift on his own?”

“He can’t control it, and it makes him ill.”

“The ancient legends hinted of unusual properties of the omega’s shift. The mating should stabilize his shift,” Monty’s father said, his eyes softening. “He worries you?”

Monty nodded and drew a deep breath. Scott was irrationally afraid of his werewolf side. He feared the loss of control. He feared the swimming vision and the rising nausea of the shift. He feared the beast within him that longed to lick Monty’s face and turn belly up. Scott was a submissive. It showed readily enough on his human side, but there he could make excuses with his convoluted logic. On the werewolf side, he was left only with his unshielded feelings.

“He fears the bond; he fears the submission even as his soul craves it.”

“Son, I know you want to be kind; that is your nature, but Scott may need a strict master before he can have a kind master.”

“I won’t scare him more.”

“Will you kill him and you with your inaction?” Monty’s father nodded once as if passing an acquaintance on the street and walked away, following the path between the two fences. He didn’t look back and soon disappeared into the pale light of the dawn.

Monty turned and marched across to the other barn. He had work to do; the livestock wouldn’t wait while he argued with his father. He had two weeks; he wouldn’t force Scott. Submission was a gift to be cherished, not a right to be wrenched from a fearful, quivering creature at his feet. Monty saw enough fear in his lower gammas when he exercised his function as pack leader even when he tried to shield them from the worst of his dominance. He didn’t want to see that fear in Scott’s eyes, the fear that Monty was more than capable of physically forcing submission. He wanted willing and loving submission.

****

“Scott, we’re going running tonight.” Running was a euphemism that all the pack used to indicate they were going to shift into a wolf and roam through the countryside. It was a word that could be overheard in mixed company with no fear of repercussions.

“I don’t want to.”

Scott could whine and pout. Monty refrained from his first instinct which was to cuff the disobedient whelp across the back of his head. He could feel the fear in his mate; punishment wasn’t an antidote for fear.

“You need the practice, and it’s not healthy to remain in one form for too long.”

“It makes me sick,” Scott dropped his eyes to the book in front of him. He’d spent most of the last few days lying on the sofa with a book in hand. Monty had tried to cajole Scott into taking some interest in the farm or at least going outside for fresh air. Victor had been less cajoling. He’d grabbed Scott’s hand and forced him out into a miserable drizzle for a walk. The words that Scott had used to describe the experience were not fitting for polite company and had ended with Monty sending him upstairs to get a grip on his temper.

Maybe Monty should have made the point clearer then; his grandfather would never have allowed such a public airing of foul language and equally foul temper. At least Victor had shown the good sense to vanish during the tirade, and therefore could claim to know nothing of Monty’s domestic strife if pressed. Monty suspected he knew all the grim details of Monty’s home life and had shared some of the juiciest details with Monty’s father. That would certainly explain the interrogation today.

“You need the exercise and the practice,” Monty said, striving for a tone of calm authority, again resisting the urge to imprint his will on the backside of his stubborn pup.

“Fine. I’ll go for a walk with one of your jolly minions. You ought to hire them out on the party circuit; they’d be hit entertainers with their ready smiles.”

“Their job is to protect you, not entertain you.”

“I don’t want their protection!” Scott shouted, whipping his book across the room. “I want to go home. I want my life back.”

Monty watched a stray tear trickle down Scott’s cheek. He wanted to wrap his arms around Scott and kiss the tears away, but he knew Scott wanted to pretend the tears didn’t happen; he’d see Monty’s comfort as patronizing.

“Pick up your book,” Monty said in a flat tone. It was a tone that would have had most of the pack scrambling to obey. They knew the flatness of Monty’s voice signaled the divide between control and anger. Monty was fighting to keep the worst of his temper at bay.

Scott stared at Monty. Was that an open challenge in those blue eyes? Did he want Monty to force the issue? In one of his few moments of lucid conversation when he wasn’t either retreating for all he was worth or hurling insults at Monty, he’d admitted he self-identified as a submissive, not that it had gone much further than that. Monty had the impression that Scott’s few attempts to explore that side of himself had been tentative and unhappy.

“What do you want?” Monty asked, propping his hip against the edge of the sofa and crossing his arms.

“I want to go home.”

“No, what do you really want?”

“To not be a fucking werewolf!” Scott slammed the sofa with his fist. “Why do I have to be the freak? The computer nerd, the gay teenager, and now a fucking werewolf. Who wrote the script to this movie? I want out.” Scott’s face was red with anger and repressed tears. “You can’t fucking fix any of it! You star in this same crazy movie.”

“I do,” Monty said softly. “I can’t change any of those things, but I can make this world very black and white. Pick up the book.”

“No!”

That was open defiance. This was a challenge. If Scott wanted an uncompromising dominant at home and hearth, Monty was happy to oblige. “Now,” he growled.

Monty saw the effect of the growl on Scott. His eyes flew open, and he drew in a sharp breath, but he didn’t move toward the book.”

“One.”

“I’m long past the age of _Sesame Street_ and this program is brought to you by the number three and the letter z.”

In one long step, Monty jerked Scott off the sofa and swung him sideways. His hand crashed down on his mate’s hip. Three hard blows, all in precisely the same location. “More?”

“Fuck you!”

Monty sat down on the sofa and pulled Scott into a sprawl across his lap. Monty had the benefit of both surprise and superior strength. He trapped the wildly kicking legs between his powerful thighs and pinned Scott’s arms behind his back.

“You want dominance. I’ll give it to you.”

Monty brought his hand down hard, completing two circuits over the target before hauling a startled Scott to his feet and jerking his jeans and briefs to his knees. The howls and curses were louder as his hand pounded the flesh in front of him. Monty knew from the crimson color that it had to hurt like hell; his hand was complaining bitterly, but Scott still hadn’t started to whimper or cry freely. His pup needed to give it up. Monty focused on the top of the thighs, his hand beating a steady drumbeat on the red flesh. Finally he heard the change: the shaking sobs and the whimpers of a puppy, frightened and wanting protection.

Monty slid Scott to his knees and encircled the shaking man with his arms. “Cry.”

Scott cried, soaking Monty’s shirt with bitter tears. Finally the wracking sobs slowed to hitching breaths, and he lifted his head from Monty’s lap, his cheeks stained red from the crying and from the embarrassment.

“Sorry.”

“Get the book.” Monty kept his tone uncompromising. He knew it was harsh, but he’d started this, and now he needed to finish it properly or it would be worse next time. Scott would learn to submit.

“What?” Scott looked pitiful, his blue eyes swollen and rimmed with red.

“Book—now.”

Scott didn’t move. Maybe he was paralyzed with fear, or maybe he was openly defiant. Monty couldn’t be absolutely sure, but he was absolutely sure that submission and obedience required performing the task no matter the mood or the fear. His mate must obey. Monty dragged Scott sideways, exposing his hip and landed two thunderous smacks.

“Book.” Monty grabbed Scott’s hand and dragged him toward the book, ignoring Scott's effort to find his balance as he tangled in the jeans around his ankles. “Pick it up.” He pushed Scott down.

Please, let Scott pick it up. Monty didn’t want to spank anymore. The flesh was crimson and starting to streak with purple. Monty wanted obedience, not terror induced by physical pain. He was walking mighty close to that invisible line.

Scott’s finger’s closed over the book, and he collapsed in a heap.

Monty didn’t ask Scott to carry the book back to the table or to put it in the shelves. He picked up his mate, making sure the book stayed in Scott’s fingers and carried both his mate and the book to the sofa. He stroked his fingers through Scott’s sweaty hair. 

"I'm an idiot," Scott mumbled, leaning into the caress. 

"Stubborn." Monty continued to stroke the soft hair. "Stubborn can have its benefits, but not with me. You won't out stubborn me."

Scott squirmed and reached back to run his hand over his crimson flesh. "It hurts."

"It was deserved. You don't fight me just to fight me. Petty temper tantrums will not be tolerated." Monty knew his words were harsh and uncompromising, but he was making this point only once. Effective punishment should happen once and with overwhelming force; gentleness would only result in having to be harsher later.

"You're a bastard." The words were said without anger, more an acceptance and maybe a self-mocking humor.

"No argument here," Monty replied in a gentle tease. "But I'm your bastard."

"Did you have to do it so hard?" Scott flinched as he probed the heated skin with his fingers.

"I wasn't playing." Monty pulled Scott to his feet. "Step out."

Scott dropped his eyes to his tangled pants, a fresh blush rising on his neck and cheeks. "I'll be half-naked."

"I didn't ask for commentary." Monty landed a checked swing that he was sure felt anything but checked to Scott. A brush of a flower petal would be painful if color was any judge.

Scott rolled away from the slap and scrambled to slide out of his pants. His eyes were huge and still shiny from the recent tears, but at least in Monty’s mind he was seeing more than fear in his mate. Yes, there was fear: fear of the pain Monty could cause and also fear of Scott’s own submission. In the wolf form, submission had come naturally; after all it was an integral element of Scott’s personality, but in the human form he fought it. Today he tasted that Monty wanted it from Scott as a wolf as well as Scott as a man.

Scott turned away from Monty; his face was a matching shade to his scorched rear. Desperately he tried to hide himself, his hands an inadequate covering. His shirt hung down, brushing the reddened flesh, but not long enough to hide the stirrings of excitement in the front.

“Corner.” Monty pointed to the corner in the kitchen. “Hands on your head.” Monty wanted to take Scott in his arms and then to bed, but he needed to make this point now. Scott must be submissive and obedient. Scott must find that submission in itself could be satisfying. Monty had seen the slight stirrings in Scott as his hands had gone to cover his front. He was a submissive, not only in his relationship with the pack but within his most private moments. Scott was going to need a hard push, but it was there. Pain, pleasure, fear, and excitement all sat in a tangled jumble. Monty with Scott would have to try to find a path through that jumble.

Monty piddled in the kitchen, more watching Scott than preparing the stew for later today. Scott was quiet despite the fierce sting that had to be emanating from his battered flesh. He’d twitched a few times, but he’d mostly stood still, his eyes fixed on the pale green paint. 

“Go upstairs to bed.”

“It’s not noon,” Scott said, turning and tugging his shirttails down.

“I’m aware of the time.” Monty kept his voice hard. “I do not expect to be questioned. Did I not give you a sufficient demonstration?”

“Asshole,” Scott mumbled under his breath.

Maybe it hadn’t been meant to be heard, but Monty heard it plain enough, and from the sheet whiteness that that spread down Scott’s skin, Scott realized it had been heard and feared the consequences. Monty kept his voice steady; too much fear and he’d send Scott spiraling into a defensive panic. He didn’t want terror. He didn’t rape his mate, and he wouldn’t brutalize him into obedience.

“All right, more corner time it is.” Monty hooked his arm around Scott’s shoulder and steered him back into the corner. “Hold the tails of your shirt up.”

Scott spun around, his eyes wide, angry, and more than a touched aroused. Yes, this pup needed this. Scott might fight, but this was him buried under the layers of false behavior.

“Do you need another demonstration of force?”

Scott shook his head and reached for the edge of his shirt.

“Good pup.” Monty steered Scott back toward the wall, a gentle hand on his shoulder. He bent down and kissed Scott’s neck, letting the smell and taste of his mate fill his senses. He wanted Scott. He could throw Scott over the table and take him now. The pup wouldn’t fight now. Scott was tired; Monty could smell the exhaustion from his mate’s pores. Monty slid his fingers over the warm ass, enjoying the shiver and the heat broiling off the seared flesh. “I sent you to bed, not to punish you, but to let you rest. It will hurt to sit.”

Scott shifted unconsciously so more of his body was against Monty’s. He might not ask for it yet, but he wanted comfort. Monty leaned forward, letting his chest touch Scott’s back and kissed his neck again, his tongue savoring the salty flesh.

“It hurts,” Scott whimpered, his voice sounding close to tears again.

“You don’t defy me in this relationship. You’re a natural submissive. This will not be a hardship for you.”

Scott didn’t seem to agree. He hadn’t spoken, but he stood rigid, his back tense under Monty’s caressing hand.

“Scott, I’ve seen you as a wolf. I know you’re a submissive. You can’t hide that from me.” Even from the back, Monty could see the tight jaw muscles as Scott swallowed and feel the corded muscles in his mate’s neck. “Don’t fight me. Fighting will do nothing but hurt us both.”

“You’re not the one with a fire pit for an ass,” Scott spat, spinning around, his blue eyes shimmering with anger.

“I’m also not the one pouting on the sofa and throwing books around in mini tantrums, hardly acceptable behavior in any company.”

“You kidnapped me.”

“I invited you for a visit.” Monty reached forward to stroke Scott’s hair, but he ducked away.

“Last time I checked kidnapping led to the FBI and arrests; no one calls the FBI for a tossed paperback.”

“True,” Monty said catching both Scott’s wrists in his larger hand. “But no one will come after Paul or another enforcer when they come after you for living outside of the code. You don’t have a choice, and we don’t have much time.”

Scott stared into Monty’s dark eyes, his face a collage of emotions: fear, hatred, submission, and resignation.”

“Scott,” Monty said in his gentlest voice, “I want you to come to me on your own free will, but we have no choice. We will both be hunted as dangerous rogues if you do not accept your place at my side.”

“Why?” Scott’s voice was plaintive and reflected a shattering of hope. “I’m screwed.”

“Only if you want to think of it that way.”

“How else am I supposed to look at it?” Scott shouted. “I’ve lost everything, and what have I gained? A chance to get beat for throwing a book on the floor.”

“I didn’t beat you,” Monty said, trying to keep the tiredness and the feeling of failure out of his voice. He hadn’t succeeded. He’d wanted Scott to find his submission on his human side, and all Monty had done was create resistance. As a werewolf it was easy; the hierarchy was instinctive, but Scott saw submission with all the human baggage and implications when he stood in front of Monty in his two legged form. Scott wasn’t a werewolf in his human form; he’d spent a quarter of a century not knowing of his werewolf side. This was a human submissive. What did Monty know about managing human submissives? Nothing or more pointedly nothing modified with a few colorful adjectives. Monty was an alpha werewolf. He understood the pack dynamics. This was all new. Scott’s wildly swinging moods were not something he saw as head of the pack. It wasn’t tolerated in the pack.

Monty felt a growl building in his throat. He knew how to handle disobedience. This was disobedience and pure obstinacy. Scott was defying not only Monty, but his own inner self. This was Monty’s responsibility. This was his omega, his mate, a crucial link in the pack. He would make this work.

“I don’t want this.” The confession was whispered, almost a silent confession and a plea of despair. “Why me?”

Monty rubbed the tense shoulders. “Your father was a werewolf. The genes are a gift or a curse, depending on your mindset. I prefer to embrace them as a gift.”

“I’m the omega. How is that a gift?”

“You’re submissive in a world that has taught you to fear and hate your submission. With me, it will be cherished as a gift.”

“You took it. You hurt me.”

“You want me to take it. You must accept that I will take it. The other is unspeakable.”

“What is the other? What is the unspeakable? You keep hinting at some great horror.” Scott spun around, fresh tears tracking down his cheeks.

“We will be killed, I at the hands of my own betas, you by Paul or another bounty hunter.”

“Why?” Scott asked after a long pause. Monty could see the emotions storming across Scott’s face: horror, fear, and finally anger. “That’s barbaric.”

“I know,” Monty said quietly. “We are not human. You must accept that.”

“I didn’t choose this.”

“I know,” Monty repeated. The words hardly seemed a comfort, but what else was there to say? They were bound by rules as ancient as time itself. Monty had already pushed the rules further than any living wolf could remember. By all rights, he should have a human mate. He should be focused on producing an heir and continuing his line as rulers of the pack; instead, he wanted Scott. He needed Scott; his body sang when he touched his omega. The alpha and omega pair was a legend; no one truly knew if they had existed. The records were sparse and intentionally misleading. Monty had made it sound more definite with Scott; he’d had plenty of practice, arguing with his father and convincing the pack. The pack had yielded, but the discontent lay only shallowly buried. They wouldn’t tolerate an alpha who lost his mate, who couldn’t dominate and control his own omega. This wasn’t a human mate who remained forever outside the pack structure and whose main function was to bear young. Monty wanted to love his mate. 

Did Monty’s father love Esmerelda? Monty didn’t really know. He treated her decently, better than Monty remembered many of his school friends’ mothers, and divorce wasn’t permitted a mate of a werewolf. Once mated a werewolf was bound for life. The chemistry of the mates were changed forever. Biology demanded they stay together; human scientists would be fascinated by the process, but it was a secret intentionally left only half revealed. Monty’s mother could no more leave Monty’s father than Scott could leave Monty. He didn’t know if they’d still kill a fleeing human mate; no one wanted to test that tradition. Horrible deaths for both were amply recorded in the histories. Human fear of werewolves wasn’t totally a construct of smoke and mirrors. A human mate was bound to the master as Scott would be bound to him.

His mother submitted. He could see that clearly now. As a child, he hadn’t noticed, or maybe his brain only saw what it could process. His parents didn’t argue. Monty could still remember his first overnight visit to a human friend. He’d begged to sleep over, and his parents had finally relented. It was morning when the shouting had started—something about golf and paying attention to his son. The voices had shaken the home. Monty had hidden under the blanket and burst into tears. At eight he’d already absorbed that big boys didn’t cry, but he hadn’t been able to stop. His eyes had been red at breakfast, and Mrs. Chambers—Joey Chambers, that had been his friend’s name. Monty had thought he’d forgotten it—had clucked over him, assuming he was homesick. Terrified had been the correct emotion. From the noise, he’d expected blood or worse, and there was nothing. They acted as if it were normal.

Monty’s father led, but he was tied by the same rope that bound his wife. He wasn’t submissive, but he wasn’t free. A mated werewolf had to accommodate his mate. He would be hunted down, and a clean bullet would be a kindness.

“I didn’t choose either,” Monty said, “but I embrace my fate. I welcome my fate.” Did Monty’s mother understand that Gibson didn’t make all the choices, but followed a destiny of harsh expectations and even harsher punishments for deviation? Would Scott ever understand this? They were all submissive to their traditions and their destiny; choice and freewill were concepts alien to them. No, not totally alien, Monty had chosen not to take a wife. It hadn’t been as much choice as his body had rebelled as he came of age. He’d die before he’d bind himself to a wife. It was his grandfather who had spoken of the legends of the alpha and omega, his voice soft but always laced with power as they sat in a small hollow, the only light the stars and the dimming campfire. It was grandfather who understood and found the solution.

Grandfather would have liked Scott. His wife was a spitfire, not that she ever contradicted Grandfather in public. She knew and understood her role; Monty suspected she had embraced it as a cover for her real interests and an escape from a repressive family background. Monty hadn’t learned until they began to clear their home of his grandmother’s history. She was the first woman educated in her family, a daughter of an itinerant preacher with a passel of children. Her diaries had been added to the pack records. Monty would have to give them to Scott. She’d not been a simpering submissive, but a woman of strength and determination.

“What happens now?” Scott asked, his voice weak from the previous tears.

“You go upstairs and rest.”

Keep it simple. Scott wasn’t ready for anything more than simple, direct orders. The rest could be discovered later.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Slings and Arrows 7**

 

Scott rolled over and shut his eyes against the faint light in the room. Sleep was better; he didn’t have to think when he was sleeping. Sleep was a safe place where no one told him he was a werewolf, where no one threatened to hit him or shove him into corners.

“Awake?” The word was spoken softly; the hand that moved over Scott’s hair was gentle, almost tender.

“Do I have to be?” Scott asked, not looking at Monty. He could smell Monty; he didn’t have to see him. He knew Monty was sitting on the bed, his long legs swinging loosely. He knew Monty’s black hair would be framing his face and shading his dark eyes.

“I would prefer it.”

“Why don’t you just yank me out of bed and beat me? You seem good at that,” Scott spat.

“Do you need to fight all the time?” Monty wrapped his big hand around Scott’s neck and squeezed. “Do you need me to force you because we don’t have much choice here. You are my mate. You are a werewolf. We are not a democratic species; we do not coddle the weak or the ill-behaved.”

Monty’s hand wasn’t creating pain, but the threat was blatant. Scott swallowed, feeling the fingers against his delicate windpipe. He’d entered a world he didn’t understand, a world with different rules and expectations. He felt his heart race in his chest, his body throwing blood to all the vital organs. Fight. Run. Do something. 

Give in. Curl at Monty’s feet. Lick his face.

“Get up.” Monty pulled Scott from the bed. “We’re going for a run.”

“No.”

“You have no choice.” Monty wrapped his hand around Scott’s wrist and pulled him down the stairs. Scott flailed against Monty, landing inconsequential blows against the hardened mass of a man. “Dress.” Monty threw Scott toward his crumpled jeans from this morning. “Socks and boots.”

“No!” Scott cringed at his own voice. It was high and whiny, pleading instead of demanding. 

The slap was hard against his thigh; the violence controlled only by the narrowest of margins. “I don’t care anymore.” Monty said and manhandled Scott into his jeans, no kindness or gentleness, big hands grabbing Scott’s waist, powerful thighs trapping him in place. “Boots.” Monty pushed Scott down onto a wooden bench and shoved his foot into his boot.

“No, I’m not going!” Scott screeched. He grabbed Monty’s hair, wrapped the strands around his fingers, and pulled.

The slap was swift and brutal, Scott’s head snapped back, banging the wall behind him. He struggled for balance as he was tossed over Monty’s knees. 

“So this morning wasn’t enough.”

Monty was swinging something at Scott. The boot. The boot Scott had refused to put on. It beat a tattoo across his already aching flesh.

“Stop. Please. I’m sorry,” Scott blubbered as the blows rained down. He couldn’t move, pinned between Monty’s knees, his arm jammed against his back. “Please.”

The boot continued to fall, horrible heavy whacks from his hip to his knees. Scott dropped his head and sobbed unchecked tears of fear and pain and raw submission. His voice was the high yelp of a screaming puppy. Finally Monty stopped and threw the boot across the floor. Somehow Scott could hear Monty’s ragged breathing even over his own whimpers and feeble cries.

“You idiot.” Scott didn’t know if the words were directed at him or merely to the space around him. He didn’t care; his only thoughts were to remain still and limp. “I’m too close to the shift. I can’t react like a human. I’m sorry.” Monty’s voice broke. 

Scott could hear the nearly silent sound of choked back tears. Monty’s knees had loosened, and Scott twisted from Monty’s hold without resistance, He knelt on the floor, his arms wrapped around Monty’s legs. Getting up was impossible. His muscles howled, and his head spun from the raw force. He’d been defenseless, completely at the mercy of a far bigger, stronger, and fiercer man. Scott buried his head in the knees of his punisher and cried, bitter tears of freedom lost and fear known. He was the captive; his place was groveling on the floor beside the stronger.

“Pup.” Monty’s fingers tangled in Scott’s hair, a gentle tug. “Look up.”

Scott obeyed. He forced his head up and studied Monty’s face. Monty’s eyes were deep and shadowed. Slowly Monty traced the stinging handprint on Scott’s cheek.

“I’m not a man. You can’t do those things. I’d rather not hurt you.”

“Yes, sir.” It seemed like the safe answer, like the appropriate answer.

“You’re hurt. You’re scared. I am too close to the shift for games. You must obey. Do you understand?”

Scott nodded and licked his dry lips. 

“Obedience, it’s not just a word; it’s a requirement for life as necessary as eating or breathing. We do not live in a kind world.” Monty stroked his finger over Scott’s lips, pressing inward and demanding entrance. Scott opened his mouth and obediently and passively let the digit enter. “I would prefer to show you kindness, but that is not our world. Without obedience you die.” Monty pulled his finger from Scott’s mouth and kissed his forehead. “Put your boots on. We must shift.”

Their boots crunched down the cracked and decaying sidewalk and onto the gravel of the barn lots. Scott could smell the wet animals huddled in the barns. Steam rose off the manure pile, mixing with the mist that was already heavy in the air. It wasn’t raining, but the sky was heavy with moisture, and the clouds merged with the rising mist. Monty marched Scott through the pastures, the mud and wet grass squelching against their boot soles.

Scott wanted to rest; every stride drove the ache of his ass deeper into his soul. He wanted to collapse against Monty into a whimpering, pitiful ball. Monty took no notice; he strode relentlessly forward. They crossed an empty field, the animals already secure in the barn at the approaching dusk, and climbed over a metal farm gate. The brush was immediately thicker at the far side of the gate, and the wet vegetation slapped against Scott’s legs and brushed his face. He ducked and slithered through the thickets of multiflora rose and honeysuckle. Monty seemed undaunted by the vegetation and continued his quick march forward. They scrambled up a hill and through a grove of cedar trees. Victor had insisted that Scott learn the names for the vegetation as they had trudged around the field in some demented form of exercise.

Scott was panting by the time they entered the small stone building hidden in the hillside. Scott flopped on the stone bench and groaned as his ass met the hard surface. He could hear the drip of water outside and the branches banging against the roof. His nose captured a faint odor of wet fur and mildew scrubbed away.

“Strip. You will shift soon. The aura is heightened here,” Monty said, already unlacing his boots.

Scott’s eyes jerked around the tomb like structure. “Please, I don’t want to.”

“You must,” Monty growled, reaching for the buttons on Scott’s coat. Monty’s voice had deepened to a rich gravel sound. He clumsily ran his hand over Scott’s head. He was losing his coordination as a man. “Follow my lead. The shift will be easy here.”

Scott felt goosebumps rise on his arms and chest as his torso was stripped bare. The hair on the back of his neck rose in an insulating fur. He scrambled for his boots, his feet feeling trapped inside the wool socks and leather.

Scott’s nails clicked on the roughened stone floor; his tail brushed against the stone wall. Monty stood in front of him, nearly a head taller and magnificent with his massive chest and ruff, the silver in his coat visible even in the dim light. Scott rubbed his head against the great body and nuzzled the broad face with a patchwork of faint scars across the muzzle. Scott’s tongue flicked across Monty’s mouth in a gesture of subservience. Monty stood with his body perpendicular to Scott, his great head resting over Scott’s back. He growled softly, and Scott turned, flattening his ears and licking his lips.

Monty trotted toward the door, not looking back. He knew Scott would be at his heels. The forest was alive with scents and sounds. Scott followed Monty in a slow lope as they crested the hill and scrambled down a ravine to a creek rushing below. The scent of deer was heavy on the rocks; the herd had been gone only a few minutes. Following Monty’s lead, Scott plunged his muzzle into the cool water and drank deeply. He pawed at the small rapids, catching the water in his mouth and snapping at the small shower. Monty growled as the water splashed his shoulder and slapped his front paw into the water sending a larger spray over Scott. Scott shook, the water flying from his coat, but Monty had already bound to the safety of the other bank, and with a yip and a flick of his head, he seemed to be indicating for Scott to follow.

 They galloped through the forest, circling a copse where the deer had obviously slept this morning. They soared over the fallen logs, Scott’s muscles working in ways he never imagined. He gulped in air and marveled at his strength as he followed Monty cat like onto a large rock. They sat silent for a moment, studying the forest around them. They were king of the forest, the top predator.

Suddenly Monty froze, his ears erect in a perfect silhouette before leaping off the rock in a massive bound. Startled, Scott scrambled after him trying to find the long, flat stride of a running wolf. He didn’t see it, but he heard it, a high whine and a bang, followed by a ricochet of wood. Gunfire. Beyond the hollow dead tree, Scott saw a flash of camouflage and heard the snap of a twig. He strained every muscle, leaping forward in a thicket of rose, ignoring the thorns against his coat. He skidded half falling into an empty fox den. He threw himself flat in the dense undergrowth, the only motion his frantic lungs, sucking in the cool damp air. The hunters’ boots crunched close, and Scott saw a flash of silver fur against the boulder. Monty had circled back; he was trying to draw the men away from his mate.

 Hide! Run! It was safe here in the impenetrable in the thorns.

A second gunshot ripped through the forest, followed by a frantic yip and the sound of breaking underbrush. That was a wolf running with no thought of concealment. Scott could smell the blood sweet and thick in his nostrils. He scrambled from his thicket, a howl rising unbidden in his throat. The hunters paused and turned searching for a new victim. Scott raised his head and howled once more before plunging hard down the embankment, tumbling for the sheltering rocks of the creek. He could hear the faint snap of branches far away. Monty was moving and running for safety. A third shot bounced off a rock and flew by Scott’s ear. They’d seen him. He flattened himself to the ground, galloping full speed through the shallow water and off a small waterfall. The water deeper below soaked his coat as he charged under the overhanging cliff. Above him he could hear the men, but he couldn’t make out the words, or he couldn’t understand them. He ran, not hiding the noise of his feet splashing through the water and clattering against the rocks. Let them hear him. They wouldn’t have a good shot. Let them go away from Monty. 

The scent of blood had disappeared along with the sound of the men as Scott slowed to a ground covering trot. He scrambled up the bank and sniffed the air. No men here. He peered down over the hillside. In the darkness, he could only just make out the lights of the farm below, the security lights over the barn doors and the distant glow from the kitchen in the house. He froze, ears erect trying to hear either his mate or the sound of destructive men. Only the normal forest sounds surrounded him, muted by the presence of a wolf. He studied the landscape, searching for something familiar. As a wolf his vision was far more suitable to the darkness, but he wasn’t versed in the lore of the woods, and one tree and rock blended into the next. 

He needed help, but phones and cars and emergency services all depended on him being a man. He’d never shifted without Monty; he wasn’t sure he could shift without Monty. The stone building was his only hope. Monty had said it made the shift easier, and Scott hadn’t felt sick this time--no spots in front of his eyes or terrible nausea. He thought the building was to his right above the trees that jutted into the pasture. He trotted down the narrow deer track, his nose searching for their scent as men and ignoring the prevalent deer and rabbit that would have usually tantalized his nasal passages. He stopped, raised his head, and sniffed the wind. Scott carefully sorted through the scents assaulting his brain: cow manure, leather, the spices of the kitchen, Monty. He plunged off the narrow trail, zigzagging in the undergrowth. Those were Monty’s boots.

Without his nose he wouldn’t have found the well hidden stone structure. He nosed the boots, wishing for the man who had worn them only a few hours ago. He paced across the small room. He needed to shift; he’d never shifted alone. Think about himself as a man; that’s what Monty had said. He needed fingers to punch the cell phone keys and a voice to sound the alarm. He wanted his feet inside boots, and he wanted to stand upright. 

Scott whimpered and struggled to stand on his hind legs. A wave of nausea buffeted his body, and he gripped the wall with cold fingers. Fingers! He was back in human form. He stumbled on shaky legs toward his coat and fumbled for his phone. He squinted trying to read the numbers, his vision not totally shifted from its lupine form. Victor had given Scott his number. Scott clumsily pressed the buttons. Please, let him hit the right numbers. 

“Hello,” a voice said from somewhere warm and safe.

Scott swallowed and tried to find his voice. He started with a yip before the words tumbled from his mouth. “They shot Monty! I don’t know where he is. I don’t know if he is alive.”

“Where are you?” Victor’s voice cut through Scott’s near hysteria.

“The stone room.” Scott didn’t know what else to call it.

“Stay. We’ll be there shortly.”

The phone clicked off before Scott could say anymore. He stared at the blank screen, watching stupidly. He wanted to hear a human voice. He shivered, the cold biting into his naked skin. He dressed, the clothes unfamiliar against skin that only moments before had been covered by a rich red fur. He paced the floor, listening to the clack of his boots on the stone. He ran his fingers down the damp wall; his fingers traced the stones and stroked the thin layer of moss that seeped from the cracks.

Monty, he wanted Monty. This wasn’t his world. He didn’t know of woods and hunters and blood. He lived in the world of bright lights and blinking computer screens and where even the meat in the supermarket was hygienically packed in plastic wrap and shipped from some far away processing place.

“Scott.” The voice was rough and unfriendly. 

Scott spun around to stare into the hard, unyielding eyes of Brent. He loomed over Scott, the thick ridge of his brows somehow reminiscent of prehistoric man.

“Where is he? You left your mate. You left your alpha.”

“No,” Scott said, pressing back into the rough stones. “He led them away. He was protecting me.”

“Enough,” Victor snarled. “Brent, it is not your place to discipline Monty’s mate.”

“He’s only a mate in name. You can smell it; he hasn’t mated, and now all is lost.”

“No,” Scott shouted, “He’s alive. I heard Monty in the forest.”

“Where were you?” Victor asked, stepping forward and shielding Scott’s body with his own bulk. 

“On the hill. By the big rock. I don’t know the woods.”

“I do,” Victor said. 

Victor moved toward the door and into the darkness of the woods with Brent at his shoulder. Scott trailed behind, his stride half the length and his unfamiliarity with the woods hampering his pace. Scott struggled to keep the thin beam of Victor’s headlamp in sight. It had looked different on four legs; the branches hadn’t hit him in the face. As a wolf, he’d leapt over the logs and small crags; as a man he struggled with every lump and undulating surface. Scott was desperate for breath as they crowned the hill by the big rock. Victor bounded onto the rock and stared off into the darkness and mist. 

“This way.” Victor pointed toward one more identical tree.

They slid and scrambled down a steep bank. Brent broke a branch from a sapling and sniffed the edge. “Blood. See the broken bushes,” Brent said to Victor. “Monty’s always careful, and he wasn’t careful here.”

“This way.” Victor ran hard, looking more wolf than man, even though he was still in a man’s body. He placed his feet without fault, never slipping on the treacherous ground.

“Monty!” Scott threw himself down the hill. Monty lay huddled under a rock ledge, his head resting unmoving on his paws. Blood pooled underneath him and soaked the usually sleek hair of his shoulder. “Monty.” Scott ran his hand over the Monty’s broad skull. “Please.” 

The scent of blood was overwhelming in the tight space. Sticky, warm, and almost black it trickled onto Scott’s pants and splashed onto his boots. Scott traced his finger over the erect ears; he’d never touched Monty as a wolf, not in his human form. Scott had made Monty hit him today. Brent and Victor had probably seen the bruise on Scott’s cheek. Scott would never know the caressing hand of his mate. Tears dripped from Scott’s eyes and splashed on the soiled fur. Monty shuddered, his ribcage rising and falling.

“He’s alive,” Scott screamed. “Don’t die.” Scott covered the gaping wound with his fingers, uselessly trying to stop the flow of life forces.

Victor’s headlamp swung down, bathing Scott in a white glare. Brent landed on the narrow shelf with a single jump from above.

“Keep pressure on it,” Brent snarled, stripping off his sweater as a makeshift compress. “Keep your hands on him. His life depends on it.”

Brent knelt and swung the weight of the great wolf onto his back. With a grunt, he rose to his feet with Monty draped around his neck like a macabre shawl.

“Keep your hands on him,” The same instruction repeated with desperate energy. 

Scott pressed the sweater into the wound and wrapped his fingers into the dense fur of the neck. They scrambled up the bank. Somehow Brent had this incredible strength to scale the rocks and mud with the weight of a full size werewolf on his back. They charged down the hill, a blind run in only the flickering light of Victor’s headlamp. Scott thought only of touching Monty. He had to keep his hands against his mate. Thorns tore at Scott’s pants and stabbed his face. His blood was trickling onto Monty as they ran. His lungs refused to work any harder; the air a precious commodity in far too short of supply.

A truck stood at the bottom of the hill, the throb of the diesel engine out of place in the world of the forest. Brent laid Monty’s body in the bed and hoisted Scott up by his belt loops.

“Lay against him. He needs to know you’re there. Let the legends be true.”

Scott didn’t understand the words; he didn’t even try. He wrapped himself around Monty, burying his face in the fur. The house was a blur. Men with blankets carried them both into the house. White sheets were spread across the kitchen floor and a woman in a melange of floral house coat, heavy boots, and a wool shawl bent over Monty.

“He can’t shift back.” That was a woman’s voice. “Even with his mate he can’t shift?”

“No.” Scott couldn’t tell if that was Victor or Brent or one of the other pack members who now circled around the room, mostly big men with the smell of farms and woods on their clothes. 

“Is he going to be all right?” a soft voice asked. Gregory had inched his way forward, his face chalk pale as he looked down at his alpha sprawled on the floor.

Scott wrapped his fingers tighter in Monty’s fur. He had to be all right. He couldn’t do this without him. Should he pray? Humans did in this situation, but Monty wasn’t a human. Scott wasn’t a human.

“Monty is strong,” the women said as she bent over the wolf, her fingers probing the wound. “And he has his omega. He lives for his omega right now.”

Someone was clipping Monty’s leg and shoulder. The wound gaped jagged in the newly clipped skin. 

“He needs blood,” the woman, the doctor, said as she pressed on Monty’s pale gums.

“He needs a hospital.” Scott heard himself say.

“We’re werewolves.” Brent’s voice was harsh. “We must provide for our own or die. Helen is skilled.”

The women pushed her gray hair back from her lean face and smiled slightly. “High praise from you, Brent dear. There’s a blood collection jar in my bag. I need it. We need blood from the omega. His blood will match, and it’s his blood that Monty needs now.”

“His name is Scott,” Brent said. “You can at least use his name.”

“I need blood,” the doctor said, not lifting her eyes from Monty. “The wound is repairable, but he’s in shock from blood loss.”

“Scott’s our alpha’s mate. He deserves respect,” Brent snarled.

“Brent,” Victor warned. “Do as you’re told.”

Brent lowered his eyes for a split second in a gesture of deference to Victor, but Scott could still see the anger in the dark depths of Brent’s eyes.

Scott stroked Monty’s muzzle. He wanted those eyes to open. He wanted to see the man again who was hidden in the wolf’s body.

“Put them up on the table. We’ll need to get the bottle lower than his arm,” the doctor said. Scott started to move to his feet, but was picked up and placed on the table by Brent. Two men lifted Monty who remained limp and unconscious. 

The doctor moved toward Scott with a giant needle; it glittered in the bright light of the kitchen.

“I’ll do it,” Brent said, intercepting the doctor’s hand. “You work on Monty.” Brent’s hand brushed over Scott’s knee in an awkward gesture of affection. “Don’t pass out on me here.”

“I hate needles.”

“Think about Monty. You are carrying his life forces now. You love him.”

Did he love Monty? Monty had beaten Scott twice today, and it was a beating, but they had run together. Scott had stood and gazed at that magnificent wolf. He’d basked in the few gentle touches of affection.

Scott flinched as the needle slid into his arm.

“Be brave. Monty deserves bravery,” Brent said.

“I thought you hated me,” Scott said and looked up into Brent’s eyes.

“I protect my alpha; I protect what is his.”

“I’m his.” That was all Scott was, an extension of Monty. He wasn’t a person or a werewolf. He was Monty’s possession. 

“Scott, that’s not an insult. Monty wanted you. Be proud of that. Now don’t stare at me. You have no manners.”

Scott dropped his eyes. Manners. Brent spat on the truck floor. Who was he to talk about manners?

Brent touched the bruise on Scott’s cheek, his blunt finger surprisingly gentle. “You’re a hothead like I am. We will probably not get along, but I will protect you. It is my duty and an honor.”

Scott watched his blood trickle into the bottle. He didn’t understand. He was too exhausted and shell shocked to think clearly. Brent had hated Scott. The beta had done nothing but snarl and growl at Scott. He’d treated Scott as the enemy, as a usurper. Scott studied Brent through his lowered lashes. Brent’s eyes were on Monty with an intensity that almost hurt the soul. Brent loved Monty, not as a mate, but with an intense bond. Scott was the stranger, the man who didn’t know the customs, who clashed with their worshiped leader. He was taking a piece of Monty from them, and Scott hadn’t even wanted it. He’d fought it. No wonder they hated him.

“I’ve taken more blood than the usual margin of safety.” The words sounded as if they were coming through acres of cotton wool, and Scott’s vision blurred. He slumped against Monty, only knowing that he should keep at least one hand on his mate. He’d give up his blood for his mate. Monty was his alpha. His life was Monty’s. That’s what Monty had been trying to tell Scott. He’d been so stupid.

“Sorry,” Scott whispered, his throat too dry to make more than an almost inaudible sound. “I’ll do better. I understand now.”  


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter.

**Slings and Arrows 8**

 

The sun was high in the windows when Scott opened his eyes. This wasn’t his room; the bed was far bigger. He squirmed, trying to sit up and get his bearings.

“You’re awake.” A man’s arm wrapped around Scott’s naked torso.

“Monty!” Scott flipped over, not trusting this could be real. He needed to see Monty.

“Don’t sound so surprised. It takes more than that to kill me.”

“I though...I thought…”

“I’m here. Don’t torture yourself.” Monty kissed Scott’s forehead. “I’m here and well, and except for a little stiffness and a nasty line of stitches I’m as good as new.”

“But?”

“Werewolves heal fast, I faster than you because I understand and accept my physiology. I don’t fight it.”

“Sorry, sir,” Scott said with a rush of guilt. He had fought Monty every step of the way. Monty had wanted to be kind and gentle and Scott had forced him into harsh and unyielding.

“Pup, you didn’t grow up with this. Your difficulties are expected.”

“I wouldn’t listen. You tried to tell me.”

“Scott.” Monty ran his fingers through Scott’s hair. “In your place, I wouldn’t have listened either.”

“I made you hurt me.”

“Scott, no. I’m a werewolf; I’m not a man. I chose to use physical force to demonstrate my status. It is our way. I will punish you when I find it necessary. You do not have the right to punish yourself.”

“I was horrible to you.”

“Scott,” Monty growled, “Submit to me here.”

“You can’t just will it away with a few words. I fought you. I…”

“And you’re fighting me now.”

Scott froze. “Sorry. I’m an idiot. Now I’m babbling.”

“Scotty.” Monty pulled him close and kissed Scott’s lips. The kiss was long and demanding, and Scott felt his mouth open to Monty’s insistent probing, his resistance melting with each swipe of Monty’s tongue. “Better,” Monty said as he broke away. “Let yourself feel. When you talk, your rational side of your brain fights the submission. You are my omega; accept your place.”

Scott panted, wanting more of Monty everywhere. 

“Get up. Do your morning business, and we’ll finish this.”

Scott looked at Monty, trying to discern the meaning. Was Monty only speaking of talking? He was half hard from the kiss.

“Scott, you’re in my bed. I’m not going to let you escape that easily.”

Scott knew he smiled, a shy grin of sexual excitement and submission. He wanted this; he was ready for it. “But you’re hurt.”

“I was shot in the shoulder, not the groin. And with your blood, I’m almost healed. It is you who we must watch today. You gave me everything last night. You should be very proud. Now follow my instructions. They were not a request.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Scott.” Monty blew air out of his nose in exasperation. “You play those computer games where there are magic elixirs; just accept that for an alpha and omega pair that the magic exist for real. I can’t explain it. It just is. Now obey or I’ll stripe your ass, not that I don’t think that will be a regular occurrence in this household. You seem to need your proper quota of bruises.”

“They’re not real. Last night was real.”

“Scott.” Monty landed a hard left handed swipe on Scott’s naked hip. “I do expect obedience in all things.” 

Scott flinched at the sting and the sound of flesh against naked flesh. It hadn’t been hard; he’d felt hard yesterday, but it was more than gentle foreplay. Monty’s pupils were dilated in the bright light of the room, his breathe too fast.

“Yes, I need to mate with you. I can’t wait much longer,” Monty rasped out, his knuckles white as he grasped the blankets in tight fists. “I’m trying.”

Scott sucked in a sharp breath. His mind floated in a potent mix of fear, excitement, and unbridled sexuality.

“Go, pup.” Monty pushed Scott from the bed.

Scott stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He’d thought he knew himself: human, loving son, gay man, normal guy. He splashed cold water onto his face. He scraped at the scab on his cheek from a thorn bush. He wasn’t anything that he’d believed himself to be. He still had the blue eyes, his mother’s blue eyes. He looked like the picture on his driver license. He looked like a man, but he wasn’t. He was going to walk back in the bedroom and mate with Monty. This wouldn’t be sex like Scott knew about, not even the semi-believable wild sex that was the staple of erotica. He was a werewolf. He was Monty’s omega. He belonged to Monty.

Scott threw his head back and let out a long and wailing howl, not a howl of a man, but the howl of the wolf. The sound echoed against the walls of the bathroom. Silently Scott opened the door and padded back into the bedroom.

Monty was on top of the bed, propped up on a small mountain of pillows. He was a beautiful man—no werewolf. His dark hair with the silver streak that was so prominent as a wolf cascaded in a lush coat to his shoulders. His abdominal muscles ridged and perfect rippled below the dark fur of his chest. Further down lay his treasures, heavy testicles  and a prominent shaft already thick in its only partially erect state.

“Come.” 

One word to be obeyed without question. Scott was the worshiper, the servant, the liege, the omega. His feet moved across the smooth wood floor, and he dropped to his knees beside the bed. He’d never knelt for a man before or at least not sober. He’d played the master and servant thing once, but they’d both been so drunk that it had dissolved into laughter and tangled and confused sex. Scott thought he’d actually ended up on top, but it hadn’t been important. They’d been fooling around.

Scott stared up at Monty. This wasn’t fooling around; Scott didn’t need to be told that. Monty’s hand reached out and caressed Scott’s hair, almost gentle as the fingers tangled in the short strands.

“Up.”

Scott scrambled for the bed. Monty was everywhere, his hands searing Scott, owning him with each touch and caress. Scott couldn’t think; all he could do was feel. He was on his back, his legs bent and open. Monty hadn’t spoken; his actions and his eyes were enough. Scott pulled his legs higher, feeling a shiver of fear or anticipation. Monty’s hand stroked Scott’s heaving chest, and those hot lips pressed against Scott’s again. Scott pressed against Monty’s hand. He wasn’t a completely inexperienced bottom. He was ready; Monty had three lubed fingers in him.

“No.”

Scott’s head shot up at the sharpness of the rebuke. He wasn’t just going to lie here all passively and take one for king and country or in this case alpha and pack.

“I’m a werewolf,” Monty said slowly as if each word was a struggle. “I could harm you easily. Let me do this. I want you to have pleasure and not just pain.” Monty kissed Scott’s chest, his tongue caressing the sensitive skin. “Keep your legs up for me, Pup.”

Monty shifted; his fingers were replaced with the slick head of his penis. He inched forward. Scott’s groan was muffled by a kiss that was all possessing, leaving him panting and slack jawed.

“Monty.” 

“Shh. You’re my mate. I have canine blood.”

Monty’s body covered Scott. No where was Scott untouched. Scott pushed back against Monty, wanting more even as the pressure built inside. Time drifted forward as they lay together, a twisted pile of limbs on sweat soaked sheets. Monty shrank and withdrew, leaving an emptiness and an ache. His lips brushed against Scott’s neck, his tongue tracing the sensitive skin of an earlier bite.

“Oh, God!” Scott’s head lolled against the pillow.

“Hardly,” Monty teased, “but I’m not totally human. We must tie.”

“That’s why?”

“Yes.” Monty fingered Scott’s sweat dampened hair. “Biologically I’m different.”

“Would I?”

“With your mate. It only happens with your mate.”

“Will I..?”

Monty propped himself up on his elbow and traced his fingers down Scott’s face. “We are not human.” His fingers played gently on Scott’s cheek, tracing the wounds of many thorns and branches. “I will give you what I can, but some things I cannot. I am the alpha. It is our way.”

“I’m the bottom boy,” Scott spat, turning his head from Monty’s caress. “No equality here.”

“Scott.” Monty’s voice was pained. “Look at me. Please.”

Scott slowly brought his eyes to Monty’s face. Monty’s dark brows were knitted together, his brown eyes dark, unreadable except for a shadow of anguish. Scott stared, searching for a name for feelings he didn’t understand. He loved this man, this werewolf, this creature who was going to insist on Scott’s submissiveness at all times. 

“Fuck!” It wasn’t a profound statement or even an intelligent statement. Scott dropped his head back on the pillow and shut his eyes. “I’m yours. Do as you please.”

The lips were mere touches on Scott’s forehead, on his cheeks, and on his lips. “I want to please you.”

Scott opened his eyes; Monty was too close, propped above him on sinewy arms, the hair on his chest brushing Scott’s nipples, each exhale mingling with Scott’s inhale. “I’m your mate.”

“Yes.” Monty’s eyes bore into Scott.

“I’ve never...I’ve never been a submissive, not for real.”

“Give it up to me.” Monty’s voice reverberated across Scott’s mind and body, even though the words words were spoken softly. “Let me have it.”

Scott licked his lips and his head fell back, exposing the underbelly of his throat and the great vessels that sustained life.Monty’s mouth was hot against Scott’s flesh and he whimpered as the teeth sank in, but he didn’t struggle; he didn’t push Monty away. Monty lifted his head and drew two fingers across the fresh bite. Blood, red and shiny, clung to his fingertips. Monty circled Scott’s lips with his fingers, painting fresh spots of blood on the lips already chaffed from kissing. Scott’s tongue darted out and he tasted the warm saltiness on his lips and on Monty’s fingers. He sucked the fingers into his mouth, bathing the fingers with his tongue; he caressed the hand that had beat him so easily yesterday.

“Good pup.” 

Monty traced his own tongue around Scott’s lips as if searching for a missed speck of blood. Scott opened his mouth more, welcoming the tongue inside, allowing Monty unfettered access. Still deep inside Scott’s mouth, Monty took Scott’s index finger and pressed it to the fresh bite. Scott felt the warmth against his finger; he was still bleeding. Monty broke the kiss and drew the finger deep into his mouth, licking off the blood, before grasping both Scott’s wrists’ and trapping his hands over his head. Monty’s teeth were back on Scott’s neck gently at first and then harshly. Scott bucked against the bite, his chest heaving, an unbidden wetness dripping from the corners of his eyes. Monty lapped the trickle of blood. Scott drew his head further back, exposing more of his vulnerable neck. Monty smiled and licked the vulnerable flesh under Scott’s jaw. His hands, horribly hot, stoked Scott’s nipples and then pinched, sending a sharp spasm of pain through Scott’s chest.

Scott’s yip of pain was blocked by the sudden intrusion of Monty’s tongue into his mouth. He thrust upward against Monty, wanting more even as the twinges of pain had not faded. Scott’s legs fell apart. He lay unresisting with all exposed.

Monty’s hand lifted from Scott’s wrist and again he propped himself on both arms, his body both protecting and imprisoning Scott. Monty smiled, an expression that hardly moved the muscles of his face, but lit his eyes to a warm brown. “My mate.”

Scott nodded. His body betrayed him with its wanton vulnerability. He was Monty’s. He wanted to be Monty’s no matter how much his rational side fought it. This was his life, his destiny.

“Your mate. Your omega.”

Monty rolled onto his side and interlaced his fingers into Scott’s and pulled them both from the bed. They stood on the sheepskin rug, their toes buried in the soft food. Scott shivered at the coolness of the air despite the fire behind the wrought iron screen. 

“You are my other half,” Monty said softly. “I can only do the best for my pack with you at my side. You must obey, but your obedience and your submission is beyond value. Your value is equal to mine, only different. Try to understand. Please.” Monty kissed Scott, an almost chaste touch to his lips.

Scott leaned into Monty, their foreheads brushing. “I’m trying.” Scott’s voice sounded faint and pleading to his own ears.

“I know,” Monty said after a long pause. “All I can ask is that you continue to try. Our path will not be an easy one. I want to love you, not torture you, and I want you to love me back. Am I asking the impossible?”

Scott squeezed Monty’s fingers tighter. His eyes moved up the naked man in front of him: powerful thighs, trim waste, dark hairs matted on a wide chest, a jagged line of purple sutures, brown and impossibly deep eyes. “No, Monty.” More words were impossible. 

“Good.” The smile was fleeting, a flash behind the dark eyes. “My mate. My precious one.”

 

The End


End file.
